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DR.  J.  6.  HOLLAND'S  WRITINGS 


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KATHRINA,   ...••.••••  1.13 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  THB  MANSE,    .       .       »       ,       ,  1.35 

PURITAN'S  GUEST  AND  OTHER  POEMS,    .       .       .       .  i.»j 

TITCOMB'S  LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PKOPLB,     .       .       .  1.15 

GOLD-FOIL.        »••••••••  1.33 

LESSONS  IN  LIFE,  .       .       ••••••  1.33 

PLAIN  TALKS  ON  FAMILIAR  SUBJECTS,  .       «       •       .  1.35 

CONCERNING  THE  JONES  FAMILY,       •       •       •       •  1.33 

EVBRY-DAY  TOPICS.    FlRST  SERIES,        •       •      •       •  I.*5 

M  ••          SECOND  Swan,         .       .      .  1.35 

SEVRNOAKS,         •••••••••  1.13 

THB  BAY  PATH,    .       .       *       .       ••••  1.33 

ARTHUR  BONNICASTLBI     .       .•••••  1.15 

Miss  GILBERT'S  CAREER,      ••••••  1.35 

NICHOLAS  MINTURN,         •••••••  1.35 

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COMPLETE   POETICAL   WRITINGS. 
With  illustrations  by  Relnhart,  Griswold,  and  Mary  HaHock 
Facte,  and  a  porfait  by  Wyatt  Eatoa.    8vo,  83,501 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN 


A    STUDY  IN  A    STORY 


BY 

J.   G.   HOLLAND 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SEVENOAKS  "  "ARTHUR  BONNICASTLK  "  ETC* 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1910 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG   &  CO. 
1876 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1882 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

KATE  HOLLAND  VAN  WAGENEN 
1904 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Which  introduces  the  reader  to  the  hero,  the  hero's  home,  and  some 
of  his  friends. 13 

CHAPTER  II. 
In  which  Nicholas  goes  to  sea,  where,  as  the  result  of  a  hard  shower, 

a  beautiful  woman  drops  into  his  arms  ! 31 

CHAPTER   III. 

In  which  Nicholas  makes  several  important  discoveries,  including  two 
members  of  the  Coates  family,  his  own  power  to  talk,  and  a 
strange  steamer 47 

CHAPTER  IV. 
In  which  Nicholas  gives  up  his  plan  of  travel  in  mid-ocean,  and  starts 

on  his  homeward  voyage 67 

CHAPTER   V. 

Which  tells  of  the  journey  homeward,  during  which  there  is  a  social 
storm  that  Mrs.  Coates  allays  by  pouring  "  ile  "  on  the  troubled 
waters 83 

CHAPTER   VI. 
Nicholas  renews  his  acquaintance  with  terra  firma  and  comes  to  an 

understanding  with  the  pop-corn  man 97 


Contents. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

In  which  Mr.  Benson  returns,  and  receives  some  fresh  information  con- 
cerning himself. 108 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

In  which  Nicholas  finds  himself  at  home  again,  gets  acquainted  with 
business,  and  a  ' '  tramp ' '  gets  acquainted  with  him 12 1 

CHAPTER  IX. 

In  which  the  strange  schooner  makes  her  last  appearance,  and  the 
tramp  calls  again 130 

CHAPTER  X. 

Which  gives  an  account  of  the  visit  of  Nicholas  to  New  York,  and  his 
interesting  interview  with  three  young  ladies 137 

CHAPTER  XI. 
In  which  Nicholas  and  Mr.  Benson  come  through  a  misunderstanding 

to  an  understanding 152 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Which  gives  a  report  in  detail  of  the  dinner  party  at  the  Coateses. . . .   163 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
In  which  Mr.  Benson  handles  one  robber  very  cleverly,  and  Nicholas 

confounds  another  by  telegraph 180 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

In  which  three  men,  dead-beaten  by  the  world,  are  also  dead-beaten  by 
Nicholas. 199 

CHAPTER  XV. 
In  which  "  Talking  Tim"  airs  his  opinions  and  sentiments  on  sundry 

topics  interesting  to  "  The  Larkin  Bureau  " 219 


Contents. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

In  which  Miss  Coates  cures  a  very  bad  boy's  disposition  by  outward 

applications. 231 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Which  contains  the  history  of  a  day's  business  in  breaking  up  And  pat- 
ting together  the  group  of  the  Laocob'n. ,  240 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Miss  Larkin  makes  some  experiments  very  encouraging  to  herself,  but 
alarming  to  her  guardian.. 259 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

"  The  Larkin  Bureau  "  has  an  instructive  session,  Nicholas  receives  a 
startling  letter,  and  Mr.  Benson  misses  his  chance  for  saving  him- 
self...  .  268 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  people  of  "  The  Beggar's  Paradise  "  attend  a  great  bread-meeting 
at  "  The  Atheneum,"  and  Nicholas  and  Cavendish  make  their  first 
speeches 279 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Mr.  Benson  indulges  in  a  misinterpretation  of  Providence  and  an  ap- 
propriation of  values  that  do  not  belong  to  him. 295 

CHAPTER   XXII. 
In  which  Bill  Sanders  gets  his  hand  "  on  to  a  bible,"  and  astonishes 

Glezen  as  well  as  his  client 302 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

In  which  Miss  Larkin  escapes  another  danger  by  the  help  of  Nicholas, 

who  finds  her  guardian  less  manageable  than  formerly 313 


Contents. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Which  tells  how  love  became  a  physician  and  performed  quite  a  mir- 
aculous cure 324 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

In  which  Nicholas  announces  his  cure  for  pauperism  to  the  ear  of  the 
assembled  wisdom  of  the  city,  and  retires  with  a  flea  in  his  own . .  334 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

In  which  Nicholas  and  Talking  Tim  contrive  to  secure  the  fruit  of  "  The 
Atheneum  "  enterprise 346 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
Mr.  Benson  is  surprised  by  a  run  upon  his  bank,  and  Nicholas  makes 

a  very  important  discovery 362 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

In  which  the  public  becomes  the  enemy  of  Mr.  Benson,  and  Mr.  Ben- 
son comes  into  friendly  relations  with  a  dog 370 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Mr.  Benson  escapes  from  his  troubles  by  a  characteristic  artifice,  and 

Capt.  Hank  comes  to  grief 380 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
The  tribulations  of  Mrs.  Coates,  on  account  of  her  "  offspring,"  reach 

a  climax. 393 

CHAPTER   XXXI. 

Which  brings  the  story  to  an  end  in  a  way  very  satisfactory  to  Nich- 
olas  408 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHICH   INTRODUCES  THE   READER  TO  THE   HERO,   THE   HERO'S 
HOME,  AND   SOME    OF   HIS    FRIENDS. 

IT  was  a  fresh  June  morning,  and  Mr.  Montgomery  Glezen 
was  flying  northward,  in  a  railway  car,  along  the  eastern  shore 
of  the  Hudson.  During  the  long  winter  and  the  tedious 
spring  he  had  been  penned  within  the  city,  with  only  one  brief 
interval,  and  that  a  sad  one.  Snow,  sleet  and  rain  had  suc- 
ceeded each  other  with  tiresome  repetition ;  but,  though  de- 
layed at  every  step,  the  summer  had  at  last  fought  its  way 
through  them  all,  and  on  that  morning  stood  upon  every 
height,  crowned  and  acknowledged  the  queen  of  the  realm. 

The  heavy  dew  still  held  the  dust,  and  he  opened  the  window 
to  catch  the  fresh  air  upon  his  face,  and  to  gaze  without 
obstruction  upon  the  beautiful  river.  Every  sail  was  up,  and 
the  wings  mirrored  in  the  lively  water  were  as  busy  as  the  wings 
that  hovered  over  the  land.  He  was  flying ;  the  ships  were  fly- 
ing ;  the  birds  were  flying.  Flying  seemed  to  be  the  natural 
motion  on  such  a  morning,  for  every  thing  that  moved ;  and 
when  he  thought  of  the  noisy,  toiling,  dusty  city  he  had  left 
behind  him,  the  motion  became  full  of  a  joyous  meaning — ex- 
alted and  exultant ;  and  he  wished  that  he  could  fly  on  thus 
forever. 

He  passed  the  long  line  of  the  Palisades  that  frowned  upon 
him  from  the  western  shore  ;  he  skirted  the  broad  stretch  of 


i4  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Haverstraw  Bay,  through  the  middle  of  which,  stripped  to  its 
skeleton,  a  Titanic  steamer  was  dragging  its  reluctant  train  of 
barges  ;  he  ran  under  the  loop-holes  of  Sing  Sing  prison,  catch- 
ing glimpses  of  wicked,  wistful  eyes,  as  the  train  slacked  its 
speed  on  entering  the  village ;  he  approached  the  beautiful 
Highlands,  standing  green  and  glorious  in  their  fresh  summer 
dress ;  he  passed  long  bridges  that  crossed  the  debouchures  of 
tributary  streams;  he  shot  through  deep  rock-cuttings  and 
short  tunnels,  where  the  mountains  threw  their  spurs  sheer  out 
to  the  water ;  and  with  every  curve  of  the  crooked  passage,  as 
it  clung  to  the  winding  shore,  he  caught  new  glimpses  and  fresh 
forms  of  a  beauty  that  reminded  him  of  all  he  had  read  and 
dreamed  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Danube. 

He  was  a  striking  figure  himself,  and  was  observed  with 
curious  interest  by  more  than  one  of  his  fellow-passengers. 
Thin-visaged,  of  medium  height,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and 
swarthy  complexion,  there  was  that  about  his  mobile  and  intel- 
ligent features  which  would  attract  attention  anywhere.  This 
morning  he  was  happy.  There  was  a  bright  light  in  his  eyes, 
and  a  smile  upon  his  mouth.  He  was  enjoying  the  beauty  of 
the  changing  landscape  ;  enjoying  the  rush  of  the  train  ;  enjoy- 
ing his  liberty  as  only  a  young  and  sensitive  man  can  enjoy 
anything.  There  was  a  mirthful  twinkle,  too,  in  the  corners 
of  his  eyes,  which  showed  that  he  only  needed  opportunity  to 
give  himself  up  to  a  pleasant  companionship  as  wholly  as  he  had 
surrendered  himself  Co  the  inspiring  influences  of  his  morning 
trip. 

But  he  hurried  on  and  on.  Once  he  was  conscious  of  a 
pause ;  and  the  fancy  came  to  him  that  the  train  was  a  huge 
orchestra,  and  that  the  players  were  tuning  the  wheels  for  a 
new  symphony,  which  soon  began  with  the  call  of  pipes,  the 
ringing  of  bells,  the  tremble  and  shiver  of  violins,  the  drone  of 
bassoons,  and  the  rhythmic  crash  of  drums.  This  passed  away 
to  make  room  for  other  fancies — for  his  mind  was  all  alive 
with  them. 

He   passed  West   Point,  snugly  hidden   behind   its  defiant 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  15 

rocks ;  he  left  Cornwall  in  its  restful  sprawl  at  the  foot  of  its 
mountain ;  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Newburg,  shining  like  a  city 
of  silver  among  its  terraced  streets ;  and  then  the  train  slacked, 
and  the  station  of  "  Ottercliff "  was  called. 

Mr.  Montgomery  Glezen  had  enjoyed  the  morning  so  much 
that  he  had  dreaded  to  hear  the  word  pronounced  which  would 
summon  him  from  his  seat.  He  started  up,  however,  almost 
fiercely,  and  was  the  first  man  upon  the  platform.  It  was  but 
a  moment  that  the  train  was  delayed,  and  then  it  whirled  away. 
He  felt  like  a  bewildered  sailor,  stranded  upon  a  quiet  beach. 
Everything  stood  strangely  still,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  de- 
parting train  had  taken  a  portion  of  his  life  with  it.  He  could 
now  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  the  wind  whispering  among  the 
tender  green  leaves.  It  was  hard  to  adjust  himself  to  the  new 
conditions. 

He  stood  for  a  few  moments,  vacantly  looking  after  the  train 
and  listening  to  its  retreating  roar,  when  he  became  conscious 
that  a  negro  in  livery  was  standing  before  him,  with  his  hat  in 
his  hand. 

"Is  you  de  genlm  dat  Mr.  Minturn  'spects  dis  mornin'?" 
said  the  darkey,  with  a  great  show  of  courtesy  and  a  radiant 
exhibition  of  ivory. 

"  I  'spects  I  is,"  replied  Glezen,  with  a  laugh. 

"De  conveyance  is  on  de  odder  side  of  de  buildin',"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Minturn' s  man,  relieving  the  visitor  of  his  satchel, 
and  leading  the  way.  "  Take  a  seat  in  de  vehicle,  sah." 

Glezen  was  happy  once  more.  This  mixture  of  big  words 
with  the  old  plantation  patois  was  charming.  He  had  found 
something  fresh  in  the  way  of  amusement,  and  the  railway 
train  was  at  once  forgotten,  as  the  carriage  started  slowly  up 
the  long  acclivity  that  led  to  the  gate  of  one  of  the  largest,  old- 
est and  most  beautiful  ancestral  parks  which  look  out  upon  the 
Hudson.  During  the  long  climb,  notwithstanding  the  new 
source  of  interest  opened  to  him  very  broadly  in  the  face  of  the 
Ethiopian  driver,  a  memory  held  him  in  possession.  Six 
months  before,  within  a  week  of  Christmas,  he  had  passed  over 


16  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

the  same  road,  bound  for  the  same  house;  and  he  naturally 
recalled  the  sad  occasion.  Mrs.  Minturn,  the  mother  of  his 
college  friend,  had  died,  and  he  had  gone  up  to  attend  the 
funeral,  and  to  comfort,  as  much  as  he  could,  the  dear  fellow 
she  had  left  entirely  alone  in  the  world.  And  now,  even  at  six 
'months'  distance,  he  could  not  help  recalling  what  sKe  had 
been  to  her  son.  Left  early  a  widow,  with  this  single  child,  she 
had  lived  to  see  him  educated,  and  to  be  to  him  mother,  sister, 
friend,  lover — everything ;  going  with  him,  and  living  near 
him  at  school  and  college,  holding  him  to  virtue  by  a  devoted 
and  absorbing  affection,  and  making  his  happiness  and  his  good 
the  one  business  and  end  of  her  life. 

So,  as  Glezen  enters  the  gate  of  the  old  park  of  three  hun- 
dred beautiful  acres,  he  wonders,  as  he  has  often  wondered 
before,  what  this  young  man,  who  has  been  left  so  lonely  and 
so  rich,  will  do  with  himself.  He  is  rich  enough  to  do  any- 
thing, or  nothing ;  stay  at  home,  or  go  anywhere ;  be  nobody, 
or  somebody.  What  will  he  do  with  himself? 

The  hill  surmounted,  the  horses  started  off  at  a  livelier  pace, 
and  with  the  new  motion,  the  sober  thoughts  were  left  behind. 
Glezen  looked  up,  and  saw  the  driver  casting  a  furtive  glance 
over  his  shoulder.  He  was  evidently  aching  for  conversation. 

"  What  shall  I  call  you,  my  man  ?  "  said  Glezen. 

"  Sah  ? "  inquired  the  darkey,  who  did  not  quite  understand 
that  form  of  expression. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Pont,  sah,"  he  replied. 

"Pont?  Pont?  Thafs  a  very  short  name.  The  names 
didn't  quite  go  round  in  your  family,  did  they  ?  " 

"  Mas'r  Minturn  says  he  'spects  it  must  have  been  Ponchus 
Pilot,  sah." 

"  Ponchus  Pilot  ? "  exclaimed  Glezen,  with  a  loud  laugh. 
"Well,  thafs  a  big  name,  but  it's  got  badly  worn  up." 

"  Yes,  sah,  like  an  old  whip,  clean  smack  up  to  de  handle. 
But  I  'spects  dat  was  de  real  name  when  I  administered  my 
baptism,  sah,"  said  Pont,  with  a  judicial  cock  of  his  eye. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  17 

This  was  too  much  for  Glezen.  He  laughed  loudly,  and 
Pont  laughed  with  him.  Then  the  former  said  : 

"  Pont,  you  were  not  here  last  winter.  How  did  you  get 
here  ?  " 

"  Well,  sah,"  responded  Pont,  "  I  wanted  my  civil  right% 
and  I  jes  done  come  away,  sah." 

"  Ah  ?  Civil  rights  ?  What  are  civil  rights,  Pont  ?  I  live 
in  New  York,  and  I  don't  know." 

"  Ye  got  me  dere,  Mas'r,"  replied  Pont,  with  a  grin.  "  I  do' 
know  what  dey  is.  I  knows  I  got  'em.  I  knows  when  I 
don't  like  one  Mas'r,  I  kin  go  to  anodder." 

"  You  like  your  new  master,  then  ?  " 

"  Yis,  sah ;  Mas'r  Minturn  is  a  genlm ;  but  he's  sich  a  chile  1 
'Pears  like  he  don't  know  anything." 

"  Ah  ?     How's  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  sah,  when  I  fust  come  yer,"  said  Pont,  contempla- 
tively, "  he  says,  '  What's  yer  name  ? '  Says  I,  '  Pont,  sah.' 
And  then  says  'e,  '  It  must  'a'  be'n  Ponchus  Pilot.'  An'  says 
I,  '  I  don't  know  what  it  was  when  I  administered  my  bap- 
tism ;  but  I  'spect  dat  was  it.'  An'  den  says  'e,  *  Would  ye 
like  me  to  call  ye  Mr.  Pilot  ? '  I  laughed  at  de  chile,  an' 
says  I,  '  No,  call  me  Pont ; '  but  I  see  he  was  a  genlm,  an' 
wanted  to  s'cure  my  civil  rights.  An'  then  says  he,  '  Kin  ye 
drive  a  hoss  ? '  Says  I,  '  Yis,  sah ;  I  was  fetched  up  with 
hosses.'  An'  then  says  'e,  '  Kin  ye  row  a  boat  ?'  An"  I  says, 
'  Yis,  sah,  I  was  fotched  up  with  boats.'  An'  then  says  'e, 
'  Kin  ye  milk  cows  ? '  '  Yis,  sah,'  says  I,  '  I  was  fotched  up 
with  cows.'  '  An'  kin  ye  shine  boots  ? '  says  'e.  c  Yis,  sah,' 
says  I,  laughin' ;  '  I  was  fotched  up  with  boots.'  Then  I  see 
'im  laughin'  in  'is  eyes.  An'  den  says  'e,  '  Pont,  how  many 
times  have  ye  been  fotched  up  ? '  '  Well  sah,'  says  I,  thinkin' 
ob  de  boots,  '  I  reckon  nigh  about  a  hundred  times.'  Den  'e 
laughed  powerful,  an'  says  'e,  '  Pont,  you'll  do ; '  but  he's  sich 
a  chile ! " 

Pont  gave  a  great  guffaw  at  the  recollection,  but  further  con 
versation  was  shut  off  by  the  near  approach  to  the  Minturn 


«8  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

mansion,  and  the  new  subject  of  interest  thus  introduced  to  his 
much  amused  passenger. 

An  old  house  was  something  that  Montgomery  Glezen  loved. 
It  was,  however,  an  aesthetic  matter  with  him.  He  had  had  no 
family  associations  with  one ;  but  he  read  such  a  house  as  he 
would  read  an  old  poem.  To  stand  upon  an  ancient  threshold 
to  wander  through  old  rooms,  and  to  imagine  the  life  that  had 
been  lived  there, — the  brides  that  had  entered  there,  blooming 
and  joyous — the  children  that  had  been  born  there — the  feasts, 
the  merry  gatherings,  the  sicknesses,  the  vigils,  the  tears  that 
had  fallen  upon  lifeless  clay  there — the  prayers  that  through 
long  generations  had  ascended  there — the  sweetnesses  of  do- 
mestic life,  the  tragedies  of  disappointment  and  sorrow,  the 
loves,  hopes,  fears,  triumphs,  despairs,  of  which  the  venerable 
walls  and  quaint  old  furniture  had  been  witnesses — always 
moved  him  to  tears.  And  to  think  that  the  frail  materials 
around  him  had  outlasted  many  generations  of  human  life  that 
seemed  so  precious  to  him, — what  pathos  !  what  mockery !  A 
day  in  an  old  house  was  more  precious  to  him  than  gold, — 
though  of  gold  he  had  but  little. 

It  was  winter  when  he  was  there  before ;  and  sorrow  for  his 
friend  had  shut  out  all  other  thoughts.  As  he  approached  the 
house,  along  the  road  of  shining  gravel  that  whimpered  under 
the  wheels,  he  saw  that  it  was  old  and  large,  and  that  it  had 
evidently  been  added  to  since  it  was  built,  though  the  additions 
themselves  were  old,  and  everything  had  assumed  the  uniform 
and  mellow  tone  of  age.  There  was  little  of  architectural 
beauty  or  grandeur  in  the  heavy  pile ;  but  the  well-kept  lawns 
around  it,  the  glowing  borders  of  roses,  the  graveled  walks,  and 
the  old  trees  that  drooped  in  every  direction  with  the  weight 
of  their  new  foliage,  were  a  sufficient  preparation  for  the  rich 
and  tasteful  interior,  of  which  he  had  once  had  a  glimpse,  and 
which  he  had  many  times  longed  to  see  again. 

He  alighted,  but  no  one  welcomed  him,  or  noticed  his  arrival. 
There  was  not  even  the  sound  of  a  human  voice  within  hearing ; 
but  the  door  stood  wide  to  the  morning  breeze,  and  he  entered 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  19 

quietly  and  looked  about  him.  In  the  center  of  the  hall  lay 
the  okin  of  a  huge  tiger,  the  head  stuffed,  and  the  eyes  glaring 
upon  him.  Opening  out  to  the  right  was  a  billiard-room,  orna- 
mented on  its  walls  with  bows  and  arrows,  and  old  muskets, 
and  pairs  of  branching  antlers,  and  other  insignia  of  sporting 
tastes  and  habits  which  showed  that  the  older  Minturns  had 
been  fond  of  the  fields  and  woods.  Beyond  this  picturesque 
recess,  further  up  the  hall,  and  bracing  its  right  wall,  there  stood 
a  massive  oak  settee,  black  with  age,  and  rich  with  carving, — 
a  trophy  of  travel  brought  by  some  wandering  Minturn  from  a 
spoiled  Venetian  palace,  who,  with  the  rare  treasure,  must  also 
have  brought  the  cabinets  and  trousseau-chests  that  announced 
their  kinship  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  grand  apartment. 
The  grinning  statue  of  an  Ethiopian  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  old 
winding  staircase,  holding  in  its  hands  a  many-branching  can- 
delabrum. There  were  ponderous  vases,  illuminated  with  dra- 
gons and  other  barbarous  designs;  there  were  old  tapestries, 
some  of  them  framed,  and  others  suspended  by  their  hems,  or 
thrown  carelessly  over  chairs  and  lounges,  with  coarse  bric-a- 
brac  piled  here  and  there ;  but  everything  strong,  artistic,  harmo- 
nious. Glezen's  eyes  rejoiced  in  it  all.  The  lavish  cost,  the 
antique  tone,  the  somber  splendor,  the  strange  harmony,  moved 
him  like  music ;  and  he  stood  still  for  long  minutes,  taking  in 
the  scene  in  all  its  details,  until  it  had  fixed  itself  indelibly  upon 
his  memory. 

Then,  with  a  light  step,  he  passed  on  up  the  hall,  leaving  a 
beautiful  modernized  library  opening  upon  his  right,  and  catch- 
ing a  glimpse  upon  his  left  of  the  generous  dining-room,  with 
its  old  carved  buffet.  Entering  the  drawing-room,  he  found  the 
windows  opened  to  the  floor,  and  saw  his  friend  through  one  of 
them,  seated  on  the  outmost  edge  of  the  broad  piazza.,  evidently 
in  a  brown  study.  Nicholas  Minturn  had  heard  nothing.  He 
was  entirely  alone,  and  his  thoughts  were  wandering  up  and 
down  the  world. 

With  noiseless  steps,  Glezen  approached  the  open  piano,  sat 
down,  and  began  to  play.  For  ten  minutes  he  reveled  in  an 


ao  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

improvisation  of  which  he  could  only  have  been  capable  after 
such  an  experience  as  this  lavish  June  morning  had  conferred 
upon  him.  At  first  Nicholas  started,  wheeled  suddenly  around, 
then  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  in.  He  longed  to  rush 
in  and  greet  his  guest,  but  he  doubted  whether  it  would  be 
courteous  to  interrupt  him,  and  he  wanted  to  hear  the  music. 

As  Nicholas  foi  Js  his  arms  and  bows  his  head,  leaning  against 
the  window-frame,  we  may  look  at  him.  Tall,  strongly  built, 
with  fine  blue  eyes  and  light  hair,  a  generous  whisker,  and 
altogether  an  English  look,  we  find  him  sufficiently  prepos- 
sessing. 

As  he  still  stands  there,  let  us  talk  a  little  more  about  him. 
When  he  comes  to  speak,  we  shall  find  him  a  little  English  in 
his  manner  too, — a  little  brusque  and  impulsive,  and  somewhat 
hesitating  in  his  talk ;  for  hesitation  in  speech,  which  in  America 
is  cousin  of  a  gaucherie,  is  in  England  the  mother  of  a  grace.  He 
is  a  young  man  who  has,  in  the  parlance  of  the  neighborhood, 
been  "tied  to  his  mother's  apron-strings."  Well,  there  are 
worse  things  in  the  world  than  being  tied  to  a  good  woman's 
apron-strings, — being  tied  to  a  bad  woman's  apron-strings,  for 
instance,  or  not  being  tied  to  a  woman' s  apron-strings  at  all.  It 
has,  at  least,  kept  him  pure  and  unsuspecting.  A  woman  may 
look  into  his  blue  eyes  without  finding  there  anything  more 
offensive,  in  the  way  of  question  or  suggestion,  than  she  would 
meet  in  looking  into  a  mountain  spring.  He  is  a  clean  man, 
simple  in  his  tastes,  hearty  in  his  friendships,  but  utterly  lonely 
and  without  definite  aims.  The  society  of  young  men  of  his 
own  position  is  distasteful  to  him.  To  them,  he  is  slow,  if  not 
a  simpleton.  The  one  business  of  ministering  to  her  who  had 
been  so  devoted  to  him  has  been  taken  out  of  his  hands,  and 
for  six  weary  months  the  world  has  seemed  empty  and  mean- 
ingless to  him.  Glezen  understands  him,  and  loves  him,  and 
has  come  up  to  spend  the  day  with  him,  and  bid  him  good- 
bye; for  he  has  persuaded  him  to  go  to  Europe,  and  thus 
make  a  break  in  his  monotonous  existence,  and  a  beginning 
of  life. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  21 

Glezen  brought  his  fantasia  to  a  closing  touch,  and  then, 
entirely  conscious  that  his  friend  was  listening  to  him,  ex- 
claimed : 

"Well !  If  this  isn't  the  most  inhospitable  old  dungeon  I  ever 
found  myself  in  !  Not  a  man,  woman  or  child  to  greet  a  fellow  !  i 
When  I  come  a  hundred  miles  again  to  see  a  friend,  I'll  tele- 
graph in  advance  to  know  whether  he's  out  of  bed." 

Nicholas  rushed  forward,  seized  Glezen  in  his  arms,  and  said  : 

"My  good  fellow,  you  don't  mean  that.  You  can't  mean 
that  you  think  me  capable  of  slighting  you.  I  assure  you  I'm 
more  than  glad  to  see  you." 

Glezen  released  himself  and  stood  off  with  folded  arms. 
Then,  with  a  serious  voice  and  face,  he  said : 

"  Nicholas,  this  won't  do.  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  put 
on  airs  of  contrition  and  cordiality,  when  you  find  that  you 
have  provoked  your  friends  ;  but  I  tell  you  it  won't  do.  It's 
too  transparent.  This  carelessness,  this  lawlessness,  is  one  of 
the  most  serious  faults  of  your  character ;  and  now  if  you'll 
be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  when  the  next  return  train  passes, 
and  send  me  to  it,  I  shall  trouble  you  no  further." 

"But,  Glezen,  you  can't  mean  it,"  expostulated  Nicholas. 

"  Mean  it  ?  Of  course  I  mean  it.  Do  you  suppose  a  New 
York  lawyer  has  to  leave  his  business  and  quit  the  city  to  do 
his  lying  ?  " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  going  forward  and  taking 
Glezen' s  reluctant  hand,  "to  convince  you  that  I  love  you,  and 
am  glad  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  said  Glezen,  solemnly  shaking  his  head. 
"  It  is  too  late.  You  should  have  come  to  the  station  and  re- 
ceived me  with  open  arms.  You  should  at  least  have  been 
waiting  for  me,  and  looking  for  me  at  the  door,  and  prepared 
me  for  that  horrible  tiger  that  almost  scared  my  life  out  of  me." 

"Yes,  that's  true,  and  I'm  sorry.  But  I've  been  terribly 
bothered  by  this  horrible  journey,  and  I  didn't  think.  Come, 
now,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  My  own,  my  long  lost  brother  !     This  terrible  estrangement 


22  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

shall  no  longer  continue.  Give  me  a  cigar,  and  the  past  shall 
all  be  forgotten,"  said  Glezen,  dropping  suddenly  from  tragedy, 
and  putting  his  arm  around  Nicholas  and  leading  him  out  upon 
the  piazza. 

Both  sat  down,  and  looked  into  each  other's  faces  and 
smiled. 

"  Glezen,"  said  Nicholas,  "  whaf  s  the  fun  of  joking  ?  You 
never  know  what  a  joker  is  going  to  do,  or  when  he's  going  to 
do  it." 

"  Nicholas,"  responded  Glezen,  "  I  wish  you  were  a  girl. 
If  I  could  find  a  girl  half  as  good  as  you  are,  I  would  marry 
her  in  five  minutes.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  It  strikes  me  it  would  be  rather  sudden." 

Glezen  laughed  and  said  : 

"  Perhaps  it  would,  but  there's  nothing  like  taking  a  woman 
by  surprise.  And  now,  speaking  of  girls,  Nicholas,  you  know 
you  look  upon  me  as  a  sort  of  father.  At  any  rate,  that  is  the 
relation  I  assume,  with  all  the  crushing  responsibilities  that  go 
with  it.  There's  nothing  for  you  but  to  get  married." 

"Why  don't  you  get  married  yourself?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"Well,  you  know  I  have  a  piano-forte,"  replied  Glezen, 
soberly. 

"  Is  it  all  the  same  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Glezen,  "  but  they  are  both  musical  in- 
struments, you  know.  Some  people  take  to  the  violin,  and 
some  to  the  cornet.  We  can't  all  play  on  the  same  thing, 
without  making  the  music  of  life  too  monotonous. 

"  But  your  piano  never  turns  round  and  tries  to  play  on 
you,"  said  Nicholas. 

Glezen  laughed. 

"  Oh,  you're  afraid,  are  you?" 

"  Well,  you  know  how  fond  I  was  of  my  mother,  but  I  never 
could  see  the  fun  of  girls.  They  giggle  so ;  and  a  fellow  never 
knows  what  they're  going  to  do." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  what  they're  going  to  do  for  ?" 
inquired  Glezen.  "  Besides,"  he  continued,  "  they  all  stop 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  »3 

giggling  when  they  get  married.  A  rooster  never  crows  aftei 
his  head  is  cut  off." 

"  Is  it  all  the  same  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas  again. 

"  My  boy,  you  are  frivolous.  If  there's  anything  I  despise 
it's  a  trifler.  Now  listen  to  me.  You  have  nothing  in  the 
world  to  do — after  your  travel,  of  course — but  to  get  married. 
This  beautiful  home,  now  so  lonely,  can  be  made  as  bright  and 
full  of  life  and  music  as  any  home  in  the  world.  You  can  be 
the  head  of  a  family.  You  can  have  children  around  you  to 
whom  you  may  be  as  much  as  your  mother  has  been  to  you." 

Nicholas  recognized  genuine  earnestness  in  Glezen's  closing 
tone.  He  was  touched  by  the  allusion  to  his  mother;  but 
with  perfect  simplicity  and  earnestness  he  responded : 

"  Glezen,  I  never  could  see  the  fun  of  children.  If  a  fellow 
could  find  them  all  grown  up,  it  would  be  nice,  but  you  never 
know  what  they're  going  to  do.  '  Pon  my  word,'  I  believe  a 
little  baby  would  kill  me.  I  always  want  to  run  when  I  heat 
one  cry,  and  half  a  dozen  of  'em  would  make  me  wild." 

"  How  can  you  talk  so  about  innocent  children  ?  "  exclaimed 
Glezen.  "  You're  a  brute." 

"  If  s  all  very  well  to  talk  about  innocent  children ;  but  they 
fight  like  tigers,  and  get  mad  and  scream  like  cats.  You  know 
they  do,"  responded  Nicholas,  with  heated  earnestness. 

"  Nicholas,"  said  Glezen  gravely,  "  I  little  suspected  the 
depth  of  your  depravity.  I  see  before  you  a  terrible  future. 
This  house  is  evidently  to  become  the  castle  of  a  giant,  who 
will  destroy  all  the  children  that  approach  it.  My  young 
friend  Nick  will  become  the  old  Nick  to  all  this  neighborhood. 
And  he  might  be  a  respectable  and  useful  character  !  " 

Nicholas  heard  the  last  word,  but  he  had  not  followed  his 
companion's  banter.  He  was  wondering  what  it  was  that  made 
him  so  different  from  all  his  friends.  They  were  easy,  facile, 
readily  adapted  to  changes  of  society,  circumstance  and  condi- 
tion ;  slid  from  jest  to  earnest  without  a  shock ;  were  fond  of 
frolics  and  games,  and  quick  to  enjoy  all  that  came  to  them  of 
change.  Here  was  Glezen,  with  a  ready  tongue,  bothering  him 


24  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

with  badinage  and  pushing  him  with  honest  brotherly  counsel 
in  the  same  breath.  He  loved  him,  but  the  trouble  was  that 
he  "  never  knew  what  he  was  going  to  do." 

"  Speaking  of  character,"  said  Nicholas,  with  a  vague  idea 
that  he  was  continuing  the  conversation  in  a  logical  way,  "  did 
it  ever  occur  to  you  that  I  haven't  any  character — any  flavor, 
so  to  speak  ?  The  fact  is  I'm  just  a  pudding  without  any  sauce 
— nutritious  enough,  perhaps,  but  confoundedly  insipid.  A 
woman  would  never  get  tired  of  you.  You  have  as  many 
flavors  as  a  drug-shop." 

"  Probably,"  said  Glezen,  "  and  mostly  unpleasant  ones  ; 
and  now  let  me  tell  you  a  thing  to  lay  up  in  your  memory  for 
your  everlasting  comfort.  Nothing  wears  like  bread  and  butter, 
and  sensible  women  know  it.  These  highly  flavored  and 
variously  flavored  men  are  just  those  who  play  the  devil  with 
women's  lives.  They  are  usually  selfish,  volatile,  unreliable ; 
but  so  far  as  you  need  flavor  you'll  get  it.  Travel  will  help 
you  to  it.  Age  and  a  voyage  across  the  sea  improve  the  flavor 
of  wine,  they  say,  and  I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  be  good 
for  men." 

"  Well,"  said  Nicholas,  "  I  don't  see  the  fun  of  travel.  It's 
such  an  indefinite  thing,  you  know." 

"  But  you  have  your  plans,  my  boy ;  what  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  two  or  three  plans,"  said  Nicholas,  a  broad 
smile  overspreading  his  handsome  face.  "If  I  don't  like  it,  I 
shall  come  back.  That's  one  plan ;  and  then  you  see  I've  had 
no  end  of  old  ladies  who  have  been  to  see  me  with  their 
daughters.  It  seems  as  if  all  the  boobies  and  bores  had  been 
to  Europe.  One  of  'em  says :  '  Oh,  Mr.  Minturn,  you  must 
think  of  me  when  you  are  at  the  Devil's  Bridge ;'  and  another 
says  :  '  you  must  think  of  me  when  you  are  in  the  Catacombs  ; ' 
and  another  says  :  '  you  must  think  of  me  when  you  are  at  the 
Tomb  of  Napoleon ' ;  and  one  gushing  creature  says  I  really 
must  think  of  her  when  I'm  on  the  Rhigi.  So  I'll  just  go  to 
those  places  and  think  of  those  women,  though  what  good  it 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  *$ 

does  a  woman  to  have  a  fellow  think  of  her  in  the  Catacombs, 
is  more  than  I  know." 

"Well,  that's  an  original  plan  of  travel,  anyway,"  exclaimed 
Glezen,  with  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Talk  about  your  not  having 
any  flavor  !  Why,  that's  delicious.  And  are  you  to  have  no 
company  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  And  you  sail  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  believe  that's  the  arrangement." 

"  And  these  are  your  plans  ?  " 

"Yes,"  responded  Nicholas.  "I'm  just  going  to  improve 
my  flavor  by  visiting  the  Catacombs,  and  meditating  on 
females." 

Glezen  put  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  thought.  He  was  very 
fond  of  his  friend,  and  very  much  amused  by  him ;  and  though 
he  liked  to  hear  him  talk,  and  enjoyed  the  ludicrous  side  of  the 
matter,  he  was  sadly  concerned  in  the  aimlessness  and  indiffer- 
ence with  which  he  regarded  the  great  enterprise  before  him. 
He  had  had  much  to  do  in  bringing  Nicholas  to  a  determination 
to  travel ;  and  now  he  saw  that  the  heart  of  the  latter  was  not  in 
the  enterprise  at  all.  He  was  going  to  Europe  because  he  had 
been  advised  to  go.  People  had  seen  him  holding  to  a  vol- 
untary confinement,  and  as  soon  as  the  word  "travel"  was 
mentioned,  all  had  conspired  to  forward  the  undertaking  with 
their  congratulations  and  their  counsels. 

At  last  Glezen  looked  up  and  said  : 

"  Nicholas,  you'll  fall  in  with  lots  of  pleasant  people.  You'll 
find  yourself  the  member  of  a  party  before  you  leave  the 
steamer.  It's  always  so,  particularly  with  a  young  and  hand- 
some man  who  happens  to  be  rich.  Don't  anticipate  any 
trouble.  Providence  always  has  an  eye  out  and  a  hand  ready 
for  those  who  can't  take  care  of  themselves." 

Nicholas  was  saved  the  trouble  of  responding  to  this  com- 
forting suggestion  by  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell,  and  the  en- 
trance of  the  village  lawyer,  to  whose  hands  he  had  confided 
the  charge  of  his  estate.  For  a  long  hour,  Glezen  was  left  to 


a  6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

himself,  while  Nicholas  and  his  man  of  affairs  were  closeted  in 
the  library.  He  visited  the  stables,  held  a  characteristic  con- 
versation with  Pont,  strolled  over  the  grounds,  looked  into  the 
boat-house,  and  wondered  at  that  dispensation  of  Providence 
which  had  placed  all  the  good  things  of  this  world  in  the  hands 
of  one  wno  did  not  know  how  to  use  them,  and  had  marked 
out  a  hard  path  for  himself,  who,  he  imagined,  could  use  them 
with  fine  advantage.  He  had  no  complaint  to  make,  for  he 
was  a  manly  fellow.  He  indulged  in  no  envy,  for  he  loved  his 
friend.  Indeed,  he  believed  that  Nicholas  was  as  manly  as 
himself.  He  knew  that  he  was  a  thousand  times  better  pre- 
pared to  meet  the  temptations  of  life  than  himself.  Certainly, 
wealth  had  not  spoiled  Nicholas  ;  and  he  was  not  certain  that 
wealth  would  not  have  spoiled  Montgomery  Glezen. 

At  the  close  of  the  interview  in  the  library,  the  early  country 
dinner  was  announced,  and  on  entering  the  dining-room  Glezen 
was  presented  to  his  friend's  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Fleming,  and 
to  his  lawyer,  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold.  Nicholas  explained  to 
Glezen  that  Mrs.  Fleming  was  his  mother's  friend,  whom  she 
had  known  and  loved  all  her  life;  and  said  that,  for  his 
mother's  sake,  she  had  undertaken  to  look  after  him,  and  to 
guide  his  house. 

Mrs.  Fleming  protested  that,  while  she  had  loved  the  young 
man's  mother  as  she  had  never  loved  any  other  woman,  no  son 
could  be  more  affectionate  or  more  worthy  of  affection  than 
she  had  found  Nicholas  to  be. 

Mrs.  Fleming  was  a  Quaker  in  her  creed  and  in  her  dress. 
Her  face  was  bright  with  intelligence,  and  fine  in  every  feature 
— a  gray-haired  woman  with  a  youthful  spirit,  to  whom  not 
only  Nicholas  felt  himself  irresistibly  attracted.  She  was  one 
of  those  women  to  whom  any  young  man  could  easily  open  his 
heart  at  a  moment's  notice.  Glezen  saw,  with  an  admiration 
which  painted  itself  upon  his  expressive  face,  the  affectionate 
and  respectful  relations  that  existed  between  this  lady  and  the 
young  master  of  the  house, — the  almost  motherly  fondness  that 
manifested  itself  upon  one  side;  the  half-gallant,  half-filial 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  27 

feeling  that  prevailed  upon  the  other.  He  apprehended  at 
once  the  reason  that  Nicholas  could  remain  so  contentedly  at 
home. 

When  Mrs.  Fleming  had  completed  her  first  offices  of  hospi- 
tality at  the  board,  she  took  up  a  letter  that  a  servant  had 
placed  at  her  plate,  and  begged  the  privilege  of  opening  it.  As 
she  read  it,  her  face  lighted  with  pleasure,  and  she  said  : 

"  Nicholas,  here  is  some  good  news  for  thee." 

"  Tell  us  what  it  is,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  The  Bensons  are  going  on  the  '  Ariadne ' — on  the  same 
steamer  with  thee.  No,"  she  added,  after  reading  further, 
"  only  Mr.  Benson  and  his  ward,  Miss  Larkin,  with  her  com- 
panion. She  is  a  wretched  invalid.  I  suppose  the  voyage  is 
for  her  benefit." 

"But  I  don't  know  Mr.  Benson,"  said  Nicholas,  disap- 
pointed. 

"  I  shall  have  the  privilege  of  giving  thee  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction," said  Mrs.  Fleming. 

"  He's  a  good  man  to  know,  of  course  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"  Oh !  he's  what  they  call  a  model  man,"  responded  Mrs. 
Fleming — "a  man  without  reproach — more  respected,  more 
trusted  than  any  man  I  know." 

"Well,"  said  Nicholas,  "if  he's  a  model  man,  I  should  like 
to  know  him.  A  model  is  just  what  I'm  after.  I  fancy  there'i 
stuff  enough  in  me,  if  I  only  had  a  model." 

"Nicholas,"  said  Glezen,  "you  are  not  polite  to  your  guests. 
Mr.  Gold,  here,  is  a  model  man.  I  am  a  model  man.  I  say 
it  with  profound  modesty.  I  come  up  here  and  display  my 
perfections  to  you,  and  off  you  go,  wandering  after  strange 
gods.  You  deliberately  trample  on  the  commonest  notions  of 
friendship  and  hospitality." 

"Glezen,  what's  the  fun  of  fooling?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

Mrs.  Fleming  laughed.  She  had  read  Gl-ezen  at  a  glance, 
and  fully  appreciated  the  temptation  to  banter  which  such  a 
nature  as  that  of  Nicholas  presented  to  him.  So  she  said: 

"  I  fancy  a  model  man  must  be  a  man  who  never  changes, — 


28  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

one  who  never  laughs,  never  cries,  is  never  rude,  never  weak, 
is  always  the  same,  governed  by  principle,  and  can  stand  and 
be  looked  at  years  at  a  time." 

"  Can  a  fellow  love  him  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  his  wife  and  children  love  him ,  but 
everybody  respects  him,  and  everybody  trusts  him.  He  is 
treasurer  of  everything.  I  suppose  he  holds  in  trust  the 
money  of  more  widows  and  orphans  than  any  other  man  in 
New  York." 

The  last  remark  aroused  the  attention  of  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold. 
Up  to  this  time  he  had  been  quietly  engaged  with  his  dinner, 
and  had  evidently  regarded  himself  as  an  outsider.  His 
observation  and  his  quick  lawyer's  instincts  had  taught  him 
that  no  man  is  liable  to  be  crowned  with  a  great  many  trusts 
who  does  not  seek  them,  and  make  their  possession  a  part  of 
the  policy  of  his  life.  His  client  was  about  to  pass  into  the 
intimate  companionship  of  this  man,  and  the  prospect  was  not 
a  pleasant  one. 

"  A  model  man — begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Fleming — "  said 
Mr.  Bellamy  Gold,  "  is  a  made-up  man.  At  least,  that  is  what 
my  observation  has  taught  me.  He  has  shaped  everything  in 
him  to  a  policy.  Most  of  the  model  men  I  have  known  have 
shaped  themselves  to  just  this.  Now  I  don't  know  Mr.  Benson, 
of  course.  He  may  be  an  exception,  but  I  wouldn't  trust  a 
model  man  as  far  as  I  could  see  him.  He  is  always  a  pretty 
piece  of  patchwork,  cut  down  here,  padded  there,  without 
angles,  and  without  any  more  palatable  individuality  than — 
than — that  plate  of  squash." 

Here  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold  tapped  the  plate  with  his  knife,  as  if 
the  question  were  settled  and  there  were  nothing  more  to  be 
said  upon  the  subject.  He  had  at  least  said  enough  to  put  his 
unsuspecting  client  upon  his  guard,  and  to  leave  an  amused 
and  curious  look  upon  the  faces  of  his  companions. 

Mrs.  Fleming  broke  the  silence  that  followed  the  somewhat 
bumptious  remarks  of  the  lawyer  by  saying  that  it  would  at 
least  be  pleasant  for  Nicholas  to  know  somebody  on  board,  and 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  29 

he  could  make  much  01  little  of  the  acquaintance,  as  might  seem 
best  to  him. 

"  But  what  about  this  ward  of  the  model  man  ? "  inquired 
Glezen.  "  Is  she  handsome — interesting  ?  " 

"  I  shall  tell  thee  nothing  about  her.  She  has  had  a  sad  life, 
and  deserves  all  the  courtesy  it  is  in  any  man's  power  to  bestow 
upon  her." 

"The  vista  opens,"  said  Glezen.  "I  see  it  all, — interesting 
invalid, — a  polite  and  intriguing  guardian — a  susceptible  young 
man  in  independent  circumstances — moonlight  evenings  on  the 
great  and  wide  sea, — the  whole  thing  confided  to  Glezen  as  the 
young  man's  next  friend, — nuptials, — and  happy  forever  after  !  " 

All  rose  from  the  table  with  a  laugh,  and  the  afternoon  and 
evening  were  quickly  passed  away  in  receiving  calls  and  attend- 
ing to  the  never-ending  last  things  that  must  be  done  previous 
to  a  long  absence  from  home. 

On  the  following  morning,  a  light  box  of  luggage  was  sent 
down  to  the  station,  and  Nicholas  and  his  friend  soon  followed 
it.  Pont  was  silent.  "  Mas'r  Minturn  "  was  going  away,  and 
the  place  would  be  very  lonely  without  him.  As  for  Nicholas, 
he  was  in  a  kind  of  maze.  He  did  not  wish  to  go  away ;  he 
had  no  pleasure  in  anticipation  but  that  of  getting  back ;  he 
wondered  why,  with  all  his  wealth  at  command,  he  should  be 
sent  around  into  places  that  he  did  not  care  for ;  and,  for  once 
in  his  life  at  least,  he  envied  Glezen,  for  Glezen  knew  "  what 
he  was  going  to  do." 

"  Good-bye,  Pont,"  he  said,  taking  the  honest  darkey's  hand 
as  the  train  approached  which  was  to  bear  him  away.  "  Good- 
bye !  God  bless  you!  I  shall  come  back  if  I  don't  enjoy 
myself." 

"It's  a  good  place  to  come  back  to,  sah.  It's  a  salubr'ous 
elevation  here,  sah,"  said  Pont,  drawing  back,  and  lifting  hii 
hat. 

"  Pont,"  said  Glezen,  "  I  shall  yearn  for  you.  Not  a  day, 
not  an  hour,  will  pass  in  which  my  heart  will  not  go  out  to  you 
with  unspeakable  tenderness." 


30  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Then  he  put  both  hands  upon  the  uncovered,  woolly  head, 
and  pronounced  some  sort  of  a  benediction  that  left  the  fellow 
laughing  through  his  tears ;  and  then,  with  its  added  burden, 
the  train  whirled  away,  leaving  Pont  to  drive  slowly  back  to  th«» 
house,  talking  sadly  to  himself  all  the  way. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I»  WHICH  NICHOLAS  GOES   TO  SEA,  WHERE,  AS  THE  RESULT  OF  A 
HARD  SHOWER,  A  BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN  DROPS  INTO  HIS  ARMS  ! 

IT  was  two  o'clock,  and  the  good  ship  "  Ariadne  "  was  to 
leave  her  dock  at  three.  The  steam  was  up,  and  blowing 
fiercely  from  its  escape-pipes ;  cabs  were  driving  in  and  dis- 
charging their  loads  of  eager  passengers  and  wheeling  hurriedly 
out  of  the  way ;  drays  with  luggage  were  formed  in  line,  while 
their  freight,  which  was  quickly  discharged,  was  whipped  fiercely 
through  the  gangway ;  streamers  were  flying  from  every  stand- 
ing spar  ;  women  with  fruit,  and  men  with  flowers  or  steamer- 
chairs  or  little  stores,  were  pushing  their  bargains ;  crowds  of 
men,  women,  and  children  were  rushing  on  board ;  and  one 
would  judge  by  the  noise  and  crush  that  the  sailing  of  a  steamer, 
instead  of  being  a.  daily  affair,  was  the  grand  event  of  a  year. 
Women  with  children  in  their  arms,  despairing  of  getting  on 
board  through  the  great  crowd,  stood  on  the  wharf,  the  tears 
blinding  eyes  that  were  aching  to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  a  depart- 
ing friend.  There  was  the  usual  throng  of  idlers,  too,  and  the 
running  to  and  fro  of  messengers  with  packages  and  telegrams. 
Into  that  last  hour  was  concentrated  an  amount  of  vital  energy 
which,  if  it  could  have  been  applied,  would  have  carried  the 
steamer  a  thousand  miles  to  sea. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  turmoil,  Nicholas  and  Glezen  ar- 
rived in  a  carriage  that  brought  all  the  young  traveler's  modest 
luggage.  The  latter  disposed  of,  and  the  coachman  paid,  the 
two  young  men  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  enter  the  crowd  that 
thronged  the  steamer,  across  a  gangway  that  was  loaded  with 
struggling  lines  of  passengers.  They  talked  quietly  together, 
or  watched  the  faces  around  them.  Tears  were  flowing  in 
plenty  from  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  young  girls  who  had  just 


32  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

taken  leave  of  their  dear  ones.  Heartless  jests  were  tossed 
about  by  men  who  were  ashamed  to  give  way  to  their  sorrow 
and  apprehension.  One  thoughtless  young  fellow  stood  on  tip- 
toe, flinging  kisses  to  a  group  of  ladies  on  board,  and  wringing 
his  handkerchief  in  token  that  it  had  become  charged  with  tears 
beyond  its  capacity.  On  all  the  interested  faces  there  were 
either  signs  of  grief,  or  of  an  unnatural  and  almost  feverish  ef- 
fort to  appear  cheerful  and  hopeful. 

"Well,  Nicholas,"  said  Glezen,  "what  do  you  think  of  this  ? 
There's  a  touch  of  life  here,  isn't  there  ?  " 

"  It's  a  nasty  mess.  It's  piggish.  I  never  could  see  the  fun 
of  a  crowd." 

At  this  moment  a  head  seemed  to  be  thrust  between  them, 
and,  with  an  intonation  quite  unique  in  its  strength,  depth,  and 
explosiveness,  they  heard  the  word  : 

"  Pop ! " 

Both  wheeled  suddenly,  and  encountered  a  figure  well 
known  on  the  wharves  and  steamers,  and  at  railway  stations 
along  the  line  of  the  Hudson  from  New  York  to  Albany.  He 
was  a  one-armed  soldier,  who  carried  a  shrewd  pair  of  gray 
eyes  in  his  head,  and  the  most  facile,  rattling  tongue  in  his 
mouth  that  ever  blessed  a  peddler,  or  cursed  his  victims. 

"  Pop-corn,  gentlemen,  for  the  sake  of  an  old  soldier  ?  "  said 
he,  having  secured  their  attention.  "  Each  and  every  individ- 
ual kernel  has  a  jewel  and  a  drop  of  blood  in  it  for  you,  gentle- 
men. I  should  like  to  tell  you  more  about  it,  but  time  presses. 
Five  cents  a  paper,  and  just  salt  enough!  Pop-corn  is  the 
great  boon  of  humanity,  gentlemen.  It  assuages  the  pangs  of 
parting,  dries  the  mourner's  tear,  removes  freckles  and  sun- 
burn, sweetens  the  breath,  furnishes  a  silver  lining  to  the  dark- 
est cloud,  and  is  the  only  reliable  life-preserver  in  the  English 
language.  Five  cents  a  package,  and  just  salt  enough  j  In 
case  of  accident  it  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  sink,  gentle- 
men, if  you  are  full  of  pop-corn." 

Glezen  was  amused,  bought  a  paper,  and  tossed  it  to  the 
nearest  boy.  Nicholas  looked  at  him  with  wonder,  and  con- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  33 

templated  his  impudence  with  angry  disgust.  The  pop-corn 
man  was  amused  with  his  puzzled  look  and  forbidding  face, 
and  pushed  his  trade. 

"  Sweeten  your  breath,  sir  ?  Buy  a  life-preserver,  sir  ? 
Assuage  the  pangs  of  parting,  sir  ?  " 

"  Get  out !  "  said  Nicholas,  intensely  annoyed. 

"  Verdancy  cured  for  five  cents  a  paper  !  Just  fresh  enough  ! " 
exclaimed  the  pop-corn  man,  moving  away,  with  a  characteris-. 
tic  slap  of  revenge,  but  with  imperturbable  good-nature. 

Here  Glezen  gave  his  companion  a  nudge,  and,  as  he  turned 
toward  the  gangway,  he  saw  it  cleared  by  policemen,  and  then 
a  young  woman  was  lifted  from  a  carriage  and  borne  on  board 
the  steamer  in  a  chair,  a  dignified  old  gentleman  leading  the 
way,  and  a  mature  woman,  who  looked  less  like  a  serving- 
maid  than  a  companion,  bringing  up  the  rear  of  the  interesting 
procession. 

"There's  your  model  man,  Nicholas,  and  his  ward.  By 
Jove!  isn't  she  lovely?" 

Nicholas  said  not  a  word  in  response,  but  followed,  with  his 
absorbed  eyes,  the  beautiful  burden  of  the  chair  until  it  dis- 
appeared. All  the  way  through  the  crowd,  Miss  Larkin  had 
passed  with  downcast  eyes,  and  a  flush  of  excitement  upon  her 
face,  feeling,  apparently,  that  every  eye  was  upon  her,  and 
hearing  the  murmurs  of  admiration  and  sympathy  that  came 
unbidden  from  a  score  of  lips. 

Nicholas  was  evidently  impressed.  The  beauty,  the  modesty, 
and  the  helplessness  of  the  girl  stirred  all  the  manhood  within 
him.  He  thought  of  Mrs.  Fleming's  letter  of  introduction, 
which  he  had  accepted  without  any  definite  intention  of  pre- 
senting it,  and  felt  for  it  in  his  pocket,  to  see  that  it  was  secure. 

"Oh,  it's  there!"  said  Glezen,  quick  to  understand  the 
motion.  "  My  cares  are  all  gone  now.  You'll  be  happy." 

Nicholas  blushed,  and  only  responded  : 

"  Glezen,  you  mean  well,  but  you  have  an  uncomfortable 
way  of  looking  into  a  fellow." 

Then  there  came  a  great  rush  of  people  from  the  gang 


34  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

plank.  The  non-goers  had  been  ordered  off,  preparatory  to  the 
steamer's  departure.  The  two  young  men  hurried  on  board, 
and,  after  an  affectionate  leave-taking  in  Minturn's  state-room, 
where  Glezen  dropped  all  his  badinage  and  quite  overwhelmed 
Nicholas  with  hand-shakings,  and  huggings,  and  "  God-bless- 
yous,"  the  young  lawyer  rushed  off  with  tears  in  his  eyes  to  a 
quiet  stand  at  the  extremity  of  the  wharf,  in  order  to  watch  the 
huge  creature,  intrusted  with  her  priceless  freight  of  life,  as  she 
should  push  out  into  the  stream.  The  bell  rang,  and  rang 
again  ;  the  lines  were  slipped  and  drawn  in  ;  the  screw  moved, 
and  the  voyage  of  three  thousand  changeful  and  uncertain 
miles  was  begun. 

The  passengers  were  all  on  deck,  and  handkerchiefs  were 
waving  alike  from  deck  and  wharf.  Glezen  and  Nicholas 
caught  a  single  glimpse  of  each  other,  exchanged  a  salute  with 
their  hats,  and  then  the  former  turned  sadly  toward  his 
office,  the  threshold  of  which  he  had  not  passed  for  two  happy 
days. 

The  novelty  of  the  new  situation,  the  lines  of  busy  marine 
life  that  were  crossing  each  other  at  a  thousand  angles  upon  the 
broad  and  beautiful  bay,  the  view  of  the  constantly  receding 
city,  the  groups  of  chattering  passengers,  the  single,  silent  men, 
who  were,  like  himself,  without  acquaintances,  and  whose 
thoughts  were  busy  with  forsaken  homes  and  the  untried  and 
uncertain  future,  quite  absorbed  the  attention  of  Nicholas, 
and  made  him  reluctant  to  go  down  and  arrange  his  state- 
room. Indeed,  he  did  not  think  of  it  for  a  long  time,  but 
walked  up  and  down  the  deck,  occasionally  pausing  to  watch 
the  captain  upon  the  bridge,  as  he  quietly  chatted  with  the 
pilot,  or  to  look  upon  the  shores  as  they  unfolded  themselves 
in  a  constantly  moving  panorama. 

At  length  the  Narrows  were  passed,  and  the  broad  sea  lay 
before  him.  As  he  entered  upon  it,  a  swell  lifted  the  huge 
hulk  of  the  steamer  upon  its  bosom,  and  he  felt,  for  the  first 
time,  that  wonderful,  gentle  touch  of  the  mysterious  power  to 
which  he  had  committed  himself.  That  first  caress  of  the 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  35 

sea  was  like  a  voice  that  said  :  "  Old  ship,  I  have  waited  for 
you,  I  have  looked  for  you,  and  now  I  have  you  again  !  I  will 
roll  you,  and  rock  you,  and  play  with  you  through  a  thousand 
leagues  j  and,  if  it  pleases  me,  I  will  ruin  you.  You  are  as 
helpless  in  my  arms  as  a  child.  Of  the  life  you  bear,  I  have 
no  care.  Men  and  women  are  nothing  to  me.  I  care  for  no 
life  but  that  which  sports  within  my  bosom.  So  come  on,  and 
we'll  have  a  long  frolic  together  if  you  like  my  rough  ways  and 
dare  the  risk  1 " 

Nicholas  descended  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  cabin.  Here 
he  found  nothing  but  baskets  of  roses,  ships  made  of  roses, 
bouquets  without  number,  loading  the  table — the  last  gifts  of 
the  friends  who  had  been  left  behind.  It  would  be  but  a  day 
when  all  these  would  be  tossed  into  the  sea — when  all  this  re- 
dolence of  the  shore  would  be  gone,  and  there  would  be  not 
even  a  suggestion  of  anything  but  a  soundless,  boundless  waste 
of  air  and  water,  and  a  feeble  speck  of  a  steamer,  threading  its 
way  like  an  insect  between  the  two  elements.  Already  the 
steward's  forces  were  taking  up  the  carpets,  and  stripping  the 
vessel  to  her  work. 

Nicholas  went  into  his  state-room  and  sat  down,  occasionally 
looking  out  of  the  little  port-hole  that  gave  him  his  only  light 
The  reaction,  after  the  long  strain,  had  come.  He  was  lonely 
and  thoroughly  sad.  He  had  not  wished  to  take  the  voyage ; 
and  though  he  had  been  too  brave  and  manly  to  speak  of  it, 
or  show  it  in  any  way,  he  had  indulged  in  the  gloomiest  appre- 
hensions. These  he  had  tried  to  suppress,  as  fears  shared  in 
common  with  the  millions  upon  millions  who  had  safely  crossed 
the  sea  since  the  first  vessel  had  passed  between  the  Old 
World  and  the  New ;  but  he  could  not  shake  them  off.  While 
he  stood  upon  the  deck,  the  steamer  seemed  large  and  strong 
enough  to  defy  all  the  elemental  furies  ;  but  in  his  close  cabin, 
his  old  fears  came  back,  and  he  breathed  a  silent  prayer  for 
protection. 

Before  bed-time,  he  had  learned  that  he  was  a  good  sailor, 
for  while  others  had  succumbed  to  the  influences  of  the  new 


36  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

motion,  he  had  eaten  his  supper  with  appetite,  and  spent  the 
evening  upon  the  deck. 

He  had  looked  in  vain  for  a  glimpse  of  Mr.  Benson  and  his 
ward.  They  had  taken  at  once  to  retirement,  without  doubt, 
and  he  had  found  no  one  else  to  whom  he  felt  tempted  to  speak. 
About  midnight,  after  he  had  had  a  brief  period  of  sleep,  the 
steamer  entered  a  fog-bank,  and  every  minute,  from  that  time 
until  daybreak,  the  hoarse  whistle  was  sounded.  There  was  no 
sleep  for  him  with  that  solemn  trumpeting  in  his  ears,  and  he 
could  only  lie  and  nurse  his  apprehensions.  As  the  day 
dawned,  however,  he  could  see  from  his  port-hole  that  the  fog 
was  thinner ;  and  when  the  whistle  ceased  its  warning,  he  fell 
into  a  refreshing  slumber,  from  which  he  started  at  last  to  find 
that  it  was  late. 

He  dressed  hastily,  breakfasted,  and  went  on  deck.  The  first 
vision  that  greeted  his  sight,  after  the  bright  blue  sky  overhead, 
was  Miss  Larkin,  reposing  in  what  is  called  a  steamer-chair. 
The  air  was  cool,  as  that  of  the  Atlantic  always  is,  and  she  was 
hooded  and  wrapped  as  closely  as  if  it  had  been  winter. 
Nicholas  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  glance  at  her  with 
every  turn  he  made  upon  the  deck.  She  looked  at  him  once, 
and  then  gave  her  attention  entirely  to  the  book  which  her  com- 
panion— a  woman  of  thirty -five — was  reading  to  her. 

An  hour  passed  away  thus,  when  Mr.  Benson  made  his 
appearance,  walked  up  to  his  ward,  asked  her  a  question,  and 
then  sat  down  near  her,  drew  out  some  of  the  previous  day's 
papers,  and  began  to  read.  Nicholas  could  observe  him  at  his 
leisure.  He  was  a  man  past  middle  life,  and,  as  he  lifted  his 
hat,  he  saw  that  he  was  bald.  A  serene  dignity,  and  a  sense 
of  self-satisfaction,  came  out  to  Nicholas  from  the  face,  figure, 
and  bearing  of  the  man,  and  made  their  first  impression.  An 
unruffled  man  he  seemed, — indeed,  beyond  the  susceptibility  of 
being  ruffled.  Nicholas  could  not  imagine  him  capable  of  being 
surprised,  or  of  meeting  any  change  or  sudden  emergency  with 
anything  but  dignity.  His  mouth  was  pleasant.  His  lips  came 
together  with  the  very  pride  of  peace, — indeed,  as  if  the  word 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  37 

"  peace  "  had  been  the  last  word  he  had  uttered, — "  peace,"  or 
"  Benson," — it  did  not  matter  which. 

When  Mr.  Benson,  tired  of  his  reading,  rose  to  pace  the 
deck,  and  exchange  a  few  words  with  acquaintances, — every- 
body seemed  to  know  him, — Nicholas  saw  that  he  was  well 
dressed,  and  that  whoever  his  tailor  might  be,  his  clothes  were 
made  less  with  reference  to  the  prevalent  style  than  to  the 
dignified  personality  of  Mr.  Benson  himself.  His  suavity,  his 
calmness,  his  scrupulous  politeness,  and  the  fact  that  all  who 
addressed  him  seemed  to  put  themselves  upon  their  best 
behavior,  impressed  Nicholas  profoundly,  and  he  began  to  be 
afraid  to  present  the  letter  of  introduction  which  still  quietly 
reposed  in  his  pocket, — as  Nicholas  knew,  for  he  had  again 
made  sure  of  its  presence,  after  seeing  Miss  Larkin. 

A  man  like  this  was,  to  our  young  traveler,  a  marvelous 
enigma.  A  self-possessed,  self-satisfied  man,  moving  among* 
all  men  and  all  circumstances  without  perturbation,  without 
impulse  to  do  foolish  or  undignified  things,  seemed  like  a  god. 
He  thought  with  shame  of  his  own  ungracious  repulse  of  the 
impudent  pop-corn  man.  What  would  Mr.  Benson  have  said 
under  the  same  circumstances  ?  ' '  My  good  man,  I  have  no 
use  for  your  commodity,  thank  you  ! "  That  would  have  been 
the  end  of  it, — a  graceful  end,  which  would  have  left  both 
satisfied,  and  taught  the  peddler  good  manners.  Certainly  Mr. 
Benson  was  a  model  ;  but  Nicholas  felt  with  profound  self- 
disgust  that  he  could  never  become  such  a  man. 

But  while  our  neophyte  is  laboring  feebly  and  blunderingly 
toward  his  conclusions  concerning  Mr.  Benson,  the  reader  is 
invited  to  reach  them  by  a  short  cut. 

Mr.  Benjamin  Benson  was  a  man  possessed  of  six  senses. 
He  had  the  ordinary  five, — taste,  sight,  smell,  hearing,  feeling, 
— and,  added  to  these,  and  more  important  than  all  these,  the 
sense  of  duty.  If  he  liad  no  appetite  for  his  breakfast,  he  ate 
from  a  sense  of  duty.  If  he  punished  a  child,  he  did  it  from  a 
sense  of  duty.  If,  tired  with  his  labor,  he  felt  like  staying  at 
home  from  a  prayer-meeting  of  his  church,  he  attended  it  from 


38  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

a  sense  of  duty.  If  his  feeble  ward  needed  his  personal  minis- 
try, it  was  rendered,  not  from  any  love  he  bore  her,  but  from  a 
sense  of  duty.  If  he  went  into  society  it  was  not  from  incli- 
nation to  do  so,  but  from  a  sense  of  duty.  He  had  a  sense  of 
duty  to  God,  society  and  himself.  Which  was  the  strongest,  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  question.  Indeed,  his  mind  was 
somewhat  confused  upon  the  subject.  Duty  was  a  great  word 
which  covered  all  the  actions  of  his  life.  He  owed  to  God 
worship  and  Christian  service.  He  owed  to  society  friendly 
and  helpful  intercourse.  He  owed  it  to  himself  (and  himself 
included  his  family,  and  was  only  another  name  for  it),  to  be 
prosperous,  well  dressed,  well  mannered,  dignified,  healthy,  and 
happy.  No  doubt  ever  crossed  his  mind  that  he  was  actuated 
in  all  his  life  by  the  highest  motive  that  it  was  possible  for 
mortal  man  to  entertain.  He  read  his  Bible  daily,  not  for 
any  spiritual  food  he  might  receive,  though  he  might  often  find 
it,  but  from  a  sense  of  duty.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  was 
proud  or  selfish — that  he  was  proud  of  his  position,  his  influ- 
ence, his  consistency,  his  faultless  behavior,  or  that  all  his 
motives  centred  in  himself — that  he  even  calculated  the  market 
value  of  his  principles  and  his  virtues.  He  was  quite  uncon- 
scious that  in  all  his  intercourse  with  others  he  was  advertising 
an  immaculate  and  "  reliable  "  man. 

Nicholas  hung  about  him  unnoticed,  and  wondered  again 
and  again  if  he  (Nicholas)  could  ever  achieve  such  calmness, 
such  dignity,  such  imperturbable  suavity,  such  power  over  the 
respect  and  deference  of  others.  At  any  rate,  he  would  study 
him  carefully,  and  win  something  from  his  fine  example  that 
should  be  of  use  to  him. 

Miss  Larkin  remained  on  deck  all  day,  apparently  enjoying 
the  motion  of  the  steamer  and  the  fine  weather.  Her  dinner 
was  carried  to  her  by  the  steward,  and  her  companion  read  to 
her  and  chatted  with  her,  or  sat  by  her  through  long  passages 
of  silence.  In  the  afternoon,  finding  Mr.  Benson  on  deck  and 
unoccupied,  Nicholas  conquered  his  diffidence  and  fear  so  fax 
as  to  present  his  letter  of  introduction. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  39 

Mr.  Benson  read  it  with  a  smile  of  gratification,  and  extended 
his  hand  to  Nicholas  with  the  assurance  that  Mrs.  Fleming  had 
done  him  both  an  honor  and  a  service. 

"  Of  course,  I  have  heard  of  you,  Mr.  Minturn,"  he  said, 
"  and  all  that  I  have  heard  has  been  good.  Mrs.  Fleming  in- 
forms me  that  you  are  alone.  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  pre- 
sent you  to  my  ward,  a  very  amiable  and  unfortunate  young 
lady,  who,  I  am  sure,  will  interest  you,  and  be  glad  to  make 
your  acquaintance." 

All  this  time  he  had  held  and  gently  shaken  the  young  man's 
hand,  and  looked  with  pleased  and  flattering  earnestness  into 
his  eyes.  Such  a  reception  as  this  was  more  than  Nicholas  had 
expected  or  hoped  for.  Still  holding  his  hand,  he  led  him 
across  the  deck  to  where  Miss  Larkin  was  reclining,  and  pre- 
sented him,  with  words  of  friendiy  commendation  that  seemed 
to  melt  in  his  mouth  and  distil  like  dew.  At  the  end  of  his 
little  speech,  Nicholas  found  himself  seated  at  Miss  Larkin's 
side.  And  then,  with  a  graceful  allusion  to  the  fact  that  young 
people  get  on  better  together  when  their  seniors  are  absent, 
Mr.  Benson  retired  with  pleasant  dignity,  and  joined  another 
group. 

"  I  saw  you,  Miss  Larkin,  when  you  went  on  board  the 
steamer,"  Nicholas  said,  to  begin  the  conversation. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"  Did  you  ?  I'm  glad.  It  was  a  proud  moment,  I  assure 
you.  Did  you  notice  how  everything  had  to  stop  for  me,  and 
did  you  see  how  large  and  interested  my  audience  was  ?" 

No  response  that  Miss  Larkin  could  have  made  to  what 
Nicholas  felt  to  be  an  awkward  utterance,  the  moment  it  left 
his  lips,  would  have  surprised  him  more.  It  seemed  a  curious 
tiling,  too,  that  there  was  something  so  stimulating  in  the  young 
woman's  presence  that  he  detected  the  fine  instinct  which  dic- 
tated her  reply.  She  had,  without  the  hesitation  of  a  moment, 
tried  to  cover  from  himself  the  mistake  he  had  made. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Miss  Larkin.  That  was  not  a  good 
thing  for  me  to  say  to  you." 


40  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Then  you  are  very  kind  too,  and  there  is  a  pair  of  us,"  she 
said  archly,  looking  into  his  face,  that  blushed  to  the  roots  of 
his  blond  hair. 

Then  she  added  :  "  Isn't  the  weather  delightful  ?  and  isn't 
this  motion  charming  ?  If  it  could  only  be  like  this  all  the 
time,  I  believe  I  would  like  to  spend  my  life  just  where  I  am. 
I  am  so  helpless  that  to  be  cradled  like  this  in  arms  that  never 
tire  is  a  happiness  I  cannot  know  on  shore." 

"  I'm  glad  you  enjoy  it,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Don't  you  enjoy  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  begin  to  think  I  do,"  said  Nicholas,  smiling,  and 
blushing  again. 

Miss  Larkin  saw  the  point  distinctly,  but  would  not  betray 
it. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said,  "  what  a  man  like  you 
must  enjoy,  with  health  and  strength,  and  independence  and 
liberty,  when  even  I,  a  comparatively  helpless  invalid,  am 
superlatively  happy.  I  should  think  you  would  fly.  It  seems 
to  me  that  if  I  could  rise  and  walk,  and  be  as  strong  as  you 
are,  the  world  would  hardly  hold  me." 

"  I'm  a  poor  dog,"  said  Nicholas.  "  I'm  an  ungrateful 
wretch.  I'm  not  particularly  happy." 

"  With  so  many  good  people  around  you  ?  Oh,  I  suppose 
no  one  knows  how  good  people  are  until  one  is  sick  and  help- 
less. I  can  see  that  you  are  unfortunate  in  this ;  but  it  is  a 
constant  joy  to  me  to  know  that  there  are  sympathy  and  help- 
fulness all  around  me.  Why,  the  world  seems  to  be  crowded 
with  good  people.  Once  I  did  not  believe  there  were  so 
many." 

Nicholas  could  not  help  thinking  that  if  Miss  Larkin's  in- 
fluence was  as  great  and  the  geniality  of  her  spirit  as  powerful 
upon  others  as  they  were  upon  himself,  she  was  the  source  of 
much  of  the  goodness  she  saw.  He  tried  to  shape  a  sentence 
that  would  convey  his  impression  without  the  appearance  of 
flattery,  but  gave  it  up  in  despair.  At  length,  after  a  mom  snt 
of  thoughtfulness,  he  said  : 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  41 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  reason  is,  but  I  don't  like  men  and 
men  don't  like  me." 

"  I  think  I  know,"  said  Miss  Larkin  quickly,  for  she  had 
read  her  new  acquaintance  with  marvelous  intuition.  "You 
dislike  men  partly  because  you  do  not  find  them  sincere,  and 
partly  because  you  do  not  sympathize  with  the  pursuits  of  in- 
sincere men.  They  do  not  like  you  simply  because  they  have 
nothing  in  common  with  you.  When  you  find  any  good  in  a 
man,  which  is  real,  or  seems  real,  you  feel  attracted  to  him,  do 
you  not?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  The  sham,  the  make-believe,  of  the  world  repels  you.  If 
you  had  any  pursuit  in  which  you  were  thoroughly  in  earnest, 
then  you  could  take  it  out  in  fighting  and  making  your  way ; 
but  if  you  have  none,  you  will  have  a  sorry  time  of  it,  of 
course." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  know  so  much,  Miss  Larkin  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  only  guessing,"  she  said,  with  a  musical  laugh, 
"  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  guess,  you  know.  I  am  alone 
a  great  deal." 

Just  then  a  nautilus,  with  sail  set,  was  discovered  upon  the 
water  near  the  vessel. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Nicholas,  "the  steamer  would  look  about 
as  large  as  that  to  one  high  enough  above  it." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  "  any  being  high  enough  above 
it  to  regard  it  as  a  speck  would  see  a  great  deal  more,  because 
he  would  see  the  world  of  thought  that  it  carries.  I  love  to 
think  of  our  wonderful  cargo, — the  cargo  that  pays  no  tariff — 
the  dreams,  the  memories,  the  plans,  the  aspirations,  that  trail 
behind  us  like  a  cloud,  or  fly  before  us  like  a  pillar  of  fire,  or 
pile  themselves  up  to  heaven  itself.  The  sun  is  but  a  speck,  I 
suppose,  upon  the  ocean  of  light  that  radiates  from  it ;  and  if 
we  could  only  see  what  goes  out  from  our  little  steamer,  on 
ten  thousand  lines,  it  would  seem  like  a  star  traveling  through 
the  heavens — a  million  times  greater  in  its  emanations  than  in 
ftself." 


4*  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

During  this  little  speech,  uttered  as  freely  as  if  the  speaker 
were  only  pronouncing  commonplaces,  Nicholas  held  his 
breath.  He  had  never  heard  a  woman  talk  so  before.  It  gave 
him  a  glimpse  into  the  dreams  of  her  lonely  hours — into  the 
inner  processes  of  her  life.  It  displayed  something  of  the  wealth 
which  she  had  won  from  misfortune.  It  showed  him  some- 
thing more  than  this.  It  showed  him  that  she  had  somehow 
come  to  believe  in  him — not  only  in  his  sincerity,  but  in  his 
power  to  comprehend  her  and  to  enter  sympathetically  into 
her  thought.  He  felt  pleased  and  stimulated,  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  many  months,  thoroughly  happy.  To  be  on  ship-board 
with  such  a  companion  as  this,  seemed  a  fortune  too  good  for 
him.  What  response  he  could  make  to  her  he  did  not  know. 
It  all  seemed  to  him  like  something  out  of  a  beautiful  book, 
and  roused  by  the  suggestion  he  said  : 

"You  ought  to  write  for  the  press,  Miss  Larkin." 

Then  his  ears  were  greeted  with  the  merriest  laugh  he  had 
heard  for  a  month. 

"  Write  for  the  press,  Mr.  Minturn  ?  Send  my  poor,  naked 
little  thoughts  out  into  the  world  to  be  hawked  about,  and  spit 
upon,  and  pulled  to  pieces  by  wolves  ?  How  can  you  think  of 
such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Good  women  do  it,  you  know.  I  thought  it  was  a  nice 
thing  to  do,"  said  Nicholas,  in  a  tone  of  apology. 

"  But  it's  very  much  nicer  to  have  a  sympathetic  auditor.  I 
never  could  understand  the  rage  of  inexperienced  girls  for 
print.  Unless  a  girl  is  a  great  genius,  and  must  write  or  die,  it 
seems  almost  an  immodest  thing  for  her  to  open  her  soul  to 
the  world,  and  assume  that  she  has  something  of  importance 
in  it" 

"  1  never  had  looked  at  it  in  that  light,"  said  Nicholas.  "  I 
thought  writing  for  the  press  was  about  the  top  of  human 
achievement." 

"And  of  course,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  "I  should  never  try  to 
reach  the  top  of  human  achievement." 

Nicholas  had  found  a  woman  who  did  not  giggle.     It  was 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  43 

true  that  he  did  not  know  "  what  she  was  going  to  do,"  but 
what  she  did  pleased  him  and  astonished  him  so  thoroughly 
that  he  was  more  fascinated  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 
During  the  conversation,  he  had  occasionally  met  the  eye  of 
Miss  Larkin's  companion,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  the  talk 
as  well  as  himself. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Minturn,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  "  this  is  Miss 
Bruce,  my  companion.  She  helps  me  bear  all  my  burdens,  and 
does  me  more  good  than  anybody  else  in  the  world." 

Miss  Bruce  blushed  and  smiled,  but  apparently  did  not  feel 
at  liberty  to  enter  into  the  conversation. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Benson  approached,  and  said  benignly  : 

"  I  see  you  are  getting  along  together  very  well,  and  as  the 
wind  seems  to  be  freshening  a  little,  I  think  I  had  better 
go  below.  Are  you  not  a  little  chilled,  my  dear  ?  " 

Miss  Larkin  assured  him  that  she  was  quite  warm,  and  com- 
pared her  wrappings  to  a  cocoon  that  shut  out  all  cold  and 
dampness  from  the  occupant. 

"  The  cocoon  must  be  getting  thin,  sir,"  said  Nicholas,  with 
a  touch  of  gallantry  that  surprised  himself.  "  She's  been 
spinning  off  silk  ever  since  I  sat  down  here." 

"  Don't  spoil  her,  Mr.  Minturn,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  with  a 
low,  measured  laugh  that  hardly  disturbed  the  repose  of 
his  quiet  features.  "  Don't  spoil  her.  Vanity  is  an  uncomely 
vice,  my  dear,"  and  shaking  his  finger  at  her  in  half  playful 
warning,  he  marched  off,  lifting  his  hat  to  one  or  two  groups  of 
ladies  in  his  progress,  and  disappeared  down  the  stair-way. 

Nicholas  wanted  to  make  some  remark  about  him,  as  he  left 
the  group.  Mr.  Benson  had  seemed  so  pleasant,  so  fatherly, 
so  courteous,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  owed  the  testimony  of  his 
appreciation  to  those  under  the  model  man's  care ;  but  as  that 
gentleman  had  uttered  the  words  :  "  Vanity  is  an  uncomely 
vice,"  he  was  conscious  that  a  glance  of  intelligence  had  passed 
between  Miss  Larkin  and  her  companion.  Then  he  remem- 
bered that  neither  had  seemed  moved  to  speech  by  the  guard- 
ian's presence,  and  that  both  appeared  relieved  when  he 


44  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

walked  away.  So  he  concluded  that  for  some  reason,  unknown 
to  himself,  the  model  man  would  not  be  a  welcome  topic  of 
conversation.  He  had  become  conscious,  too,  for  the  first 
time,  that  there  was  something  oppressive  in  his  presence.  He 
did  not  undertake  to  analyze  this  oppressiveness ;  but  he  had 
felt  the  presence  of  one  who  regarded  everything  from  an  ex- 
alted height,  and  looked  upon  the  group  as  children. 

They  talked  on  and  on,  looking  steadily  before  them,  thor- 
oughly absorbed  in  their  conversation,  and  unconscious  that, 
one  after  another,  the  passengers  had  disappeared.  Then 
there  came  a  strong,  heavy  gust  of  wind  that  almost  lifted  them 
from  their  seats,  and,  on  quickly  looking  around,  they  saw  that 
a  sudden  squall  of  rain  was  close  behind  them.  Nicholas  and 
Miss  Bruce  started  to  their  feet  simultaneously,  and  the  lattei 
ran  as  rapidly  as  she  could  to  the  stair-way,  and  disappeared  in 
a  hurried  search  for  help  to  remove  Miss  Larkin  to  her  state- 
room. Already  the  first  big  drops  were  pattering  upon  the 
deck.  Nicholas  covered  his  new  acquaintance  with  her  wrap- 
pings as  well  as  he  could  ;  but,  finding  that  the  rain  was  pour- 
ing faster  and  faster,  and  that  in  a  few  moments  there  would 
fall  a  drenching  shower,  he  wheeled  her  chair  around,  and  drew 
her  swiftly  as  she  lay,  to  the  stair-way,  hoping  to  meet  the  as- 
sistance of  which  Miss  Bruce  was  in  search.  The  stairs  were 
reached  quickly,  but  no  help  appeared.  He  knelt  at  Miss 
Larkin' s  side  and  tried  to  hold  around  her  the  wrappings  which 
the  wind  seemed  bent  upon  tearing  away.  Then  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and  read  each  other's  thoughts. 

"  May  I  ?     Shall  I  do  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  seriously. 

He  bowed  above  her,  carefully  placed  his  arms  around  her, 
lifted  her  to  his  breast,  and  carried  her  down -stairs,  wrappings 
and  all.  He  was  met  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  by  Miss  Bruce,  on 
her  breathless  way  to  the  rescue.  The  latter  could  not  avoid 
a  little  scream  at  the  startling  vision,  but  turned  quickly  and 
led  the  way  to  the  state-room.  There  Nicholas  deposited  hi« 
precious  burden,  and,  without  waiting  to  hear  a  word  of  thanks, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  45 

or  looking  to  the  right  or  left  in  the  cabin,  sought  his  own 
room,  shut  the  door,  and  sat  down.  Then  he  laughed  silently 
and  long.  The  burden  was  still  in  his  arms.  He  still  felt  her 
breath  upon  his  cheek.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  gathered  new  life 
from  the  touch  of  her  garments. 

"  I'm  glad  Glezen  didn't  see  that.  1  should  never  hear  the 
last  of  it,"  said  he  quietly  to  himself. 

Then  he  wondered  whether  Mr.  Benson  was  in  the  cabin, 
and  had  seen  the  absurd  performance — whether  he  had  been 
shocked  by  it,  and  would  call  him  to  account  for  it — whether 
it  might  not  end  in  a  violent  breaking  up  of  the  acquaintance. 
So,  with  almost  hysterical  laughing,  and  wondering,  and  fore- 
boding, he  passed  away  half  an  hour,  entirely  unconscious  that 
he  had  been  drenched  to  the  skin.  Not  until  he  had  looked 
into  his  little  mirror,  to  see  whether  some  strange  transforma- 
tion had  taken  place,  did  he  discover  that  he  was  still  blushing, 
that  his  clothes  were  wet,  and  that  he  would  be  obliged  to 
change  his  raiment  in  order  to  be  presentable  at  the  tea-table. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Benson  was  lying  quietly  in  his  berth, 
asleep.  Waking  at  length,  with  some  violent  motion  of  the 
vessel,  he  became  conscious  that  it  was  raining  heavily.  His 
first  thoughts  were  of  Miss  Larkin,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  rise  and  look  after  her.  It  was  true 
that  he  owed  a  duty  to  Miss  Larkin.  He  also  owed  one  to 
himself.  It  was  not  for  him  to  get  wet  and  take  cold.  It  was 
not  for  him  to  endanger,  in  any  way,  the  life  upon  which  so 
many  lives  besides  that  of  Miss  Larkin  depended.  He  had 
left  Nicholas  with  her,  as  well  as  the  companion  he  had  pro- 
vided for  her.  They  would  undoubtedly  see  that  no  harm 
should  come  to  his  helpless  ward.  He  weighed  all  the  prob- 
abilities, and  had  no  doubt  that  Miss  Larkin  was  at  that 
moment  reposing  quietly  and  safely  in  her  state-room.  Having 
satisfied  himself  of  this,  he  rose,  put  on  his  coat,  and  with 
•well-feigned  haste  made  his  way  to  Miss  Larkin,  and  inquired 
concerning  her  welfare,  apologizing  for  his  apparent  negligence, 
on  the  ground  that  he  had  been  asleep. 


46  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Miss  Larkin  and  her  companion  smiled  in  each  other's  faces, 
and  assured  Mr.  Benson  that,  though  they  had  narrowly 
escaped  a  drenching,  they  had  been  helped  down-stairs  prompt- 
ly, and  were  very  comfortable.  He  was  appropriately  glad  to 
hear  it,  and  to  learn  that  no  serious  consequences  had  come  to 
the  young  lady  from  his  drowsiness ;  and  when  he  went  out 
into  the  cabin  again,  people  looked  at  each  other,  and  re- 
marked upon  the  tender,  fatherly  interest  he  seemed  to  take  in 
his  unfortunate  ward. 

Just  as  he  was  re-entering  his  state-room,  however,  he  over- 
heard from  the  lips  of  a  graceless  young  man  the  words,  "  You 
can  bet  that  the  old  man  doesn't  know  how  it  was  done." 

"That  man  was   as  strong  as   a  lion,"   said  Miss   Larkin 
to  Miss  Bruce,  immediately  after  Mr.  Benson's  departure. 
"  What  man  ?     Whom  do  you  mean  ?     Mr.  Benson  ?  " 
"Y-yesl" 


CHAPTER   III. 

IN  WHICH  NICHOLAS    MAKES   SEVERAL   IMPORTANT  DISCOVERIES, 

INCLUDING  TWO   MEMBERS   OF  THE    COATES   FAMILY, 

HIS   OWN   POWER  TO   TALK,   AND   A 

STRANGE    STEAMER. 

As  the  reader  will  have  concluded,  Mr.  Benson  was  not  a 
slow  man  in  his  apprehensions.  He  was  practiced  in  arith- 
metic— so  far,  at  least,  as  to  be  familiar  with  the  fact  that  one 
and  one  make  two.  He  had  put  the  look  of  intelligence  that 
passed  between  Miss  Larkin  and  Miss  Bruce,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  evening  call  upon  them,  with  the  remark  he  had  over- 
heard in  the  cabin  concerning  the  fact  that  "  the  old  man  did 
not  know  how  the  thing  was  done,"  and  had  concluded  that 
they  amounted  to  a  sum  which,  in  social  arithmetic,  might 
mean  more  or  less  than  two.  In  that  science,  when  "applied," 
he  had  known  instances  in  which  one  and  one  put  together 
made  one  ;  and  in  the  suspected  case  he  was  in  no  mood  for 
favoring  so  tame  a  conclusion.  An  addition  that  would  amount 
to  a  subtraction  of  Miss  Larkin  was  not  to  be  submitted  to, 
for  Miss  Larkin  was  profitable  to  him. 

So,  on  the  morning  after  the  little  affair  in  which  Nicholas 
had  assisted  so  efficiently,  Mr.  Benson  approached  a  young 
lady  of  his  acquaintance  in  the  cabin,  and  expressed  the  fear 
that  the  removal  of  his  ward  from  the  deck  on  the  previous 
day  had  been  effected  at  some  inconvenience  to  her  friends. 

Why  he  should  have  approached  a  lady  instead  of  a  gentle- 
man, and  a  young  lady  instead  of  an  old  one,  it  may  be 
considered  ungracious  to  state ;  but  he  had  his  reasons  for  that 
course,  and  was  abundantly  rewarded  for  his  choice  ;  for  the 
young  lady  gave,  with  great  cheerfulness,  a  graphic  account  of 
the  whole  performance.  Mr.  Benson  shook  his  head  gravely, 


48  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

and  expressed  the  hope  that  the  matter  would  not  be  miscon 
strued.  He  was  sure  that  some  sudden  emergency  had 
occurred  which  had  been  impulsively  met,  after  the  manner  of 
young  people.  Mr  Minturn,  he  assured  his  friend,  was  a  man 
of  the  highest  respectability,  and  Miss  Larkin  was  beyond 
reproach.  Such  a  matter  as  this  was  not  to  be  talked  about. 
None  but  malicious  gossips  would  ever  mention  it;  and  he 
knew  his  young  informant  too  well  to  suppose  that  she  would 
countenance  any  conversation  upon  the  subject. 

"  I'm  sure  we  all  thought  it  was  very  nice,"  said  the  young 
lady,  laughing. 

"  It  was  all  right,  of  course,"  responded  Mr.  Benson  ;  "  but 
it  is  liable  to  be  misconstrued,  and  I  rely  upon  you  to  see  that 
the  matter  is  dropped." 

"Oh,  certainly  !"  the  young  lady  exclaimed,  with  an  inwaid 
chuckle ;  and  then  Mr.  Benson  went  on  deck. 

Nicholas,  to  tell  the  truth,  had  not  slept  well  that  night.  How 
far  he  might  have  compromised  his  position  with  the  passengers  ; 
how  far  he  might  have  offended  Mr.  Benson's  fine  ideas  of  pro- 
priety ;  how  far  Miss  Larkin  would  regard  the  matter  without 
disturbance  when  she  came  to  think  it  all  over, — these  were  con- 
stantly recurring  questions.  He  felt  sure  that  Mr.  Benson  would 
learn  the  facts,  and  it  was  only  after  a  great  mental  struggle  that 
he  left  his  state-room  and  made  his  appearance  at  the  breakfast- 
table.  He  was  conscious  that  he  was  regarded  curiously  by 
many  eyes,  and  uncomfortably  sure  that  he  blushed.  He  was 
not  afraid  of  meeting  Miss  Larkin  there,  for  she  never  appeared 
there.  If  he  should  see  her  at  all,  it  would  be  upon  the  deck. 
So  he  ate  his  meal  in  silence,  and  started  for  the  stair  way, 
steeled  to  meet  whatever  might  await  him. 

The  first  man  he  met  upon  the  deck  was  Mr.  Benson.  He 
caught  a  distant  vision  of  Miss  Larkin  and  her  companion  in 
their  accustomed  place,  and  received  from  them  a  courteous 
and  even  a  cordial  greeting.  He  saw,  too,  kneeling  at  Miss 
Larkin's  side,  the  form  of  a  beautiful  young  woman  whom  he 
had  not  seen  before.  Her  pretty  figure,  her  tasteful  boating- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  49 

dress,  her  jaunty  hat,  her  graceful  attitude,  made  the  group 
exceedingly  picturesque  and  attractive. 

Mr.  Benson  had  undoubtedly  been  waiting  to  intercept  hi  n  ; 
but  nothing  could  have  been  more  cheerful  than  his  "good- 
morning,  my  young  friend  ;"  and  when  he  slipped  his  arm  into 
that  of  his  "  young  friend,"  and  proposed  a  morning  prome- 
nade, Nicholas  felt  that  all  his  troubles  were  over,  and  that  he 
had  done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Benson  with  a  hearty  voice,  "  how  are  you 
this  morning  ?  " 

"  Never  better." 

"  And  how  are  you  enjoying  the  voyage  ?  " 

"  Very  much,  I  assure  you." 

"You  found  our  young  lady  interesting  and  agreeable,  I 
hope  ?  " 

"  Very  ! " 

"Yes — yes — Miss  Larkin  is  a  cheerful,  patient,  intelligent 
young  woman." 

The  tribute  was  paid  with  great  precision,  as  if  it  had  been 
done  with  well-tried  coins  instead  of  adjectives. 

"You  must  be  very  fond  of  her,"  said  Nicholas. 

"Yes — yes — "  Mr.  Benson  responded;  "yes,  I  am  fond  of 
her.  I  have  stood  to  her  in  loco  parentis  for  several  years,  and 
presume  that  the  relation  will  continue  until  one  of  us  shall  be 
removed  by  death.  Of  course,  she  has  no  hope  of  marriage  ; 
and  without  me  she  would  be  as  much  alone  in  the  world  as 
you  are  ;  more  so,  perhaps." 

u  Is  her  complaint  so  hopeless  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas,  with  an 
anxiety  in  his  voice  that  he  could  not  disguise. 

"  It  is  believed  to  be  so  by  the  best  physicians,"  Mr.  Benson 
replied.  "  I  am  taking  her  to  Europe  to  see  what  a  voyage 
and  foreign  skill  can  do  for  her,  but  with  slight  expectation  of 
benefit." 

Mr.  Benson  was  reading  the  young  man's  thoughts,  as  if  his 
mind  were  an  open  book.     He  saw  at  once  that  Nicholas  was 
much  interested  in.  his  ward,  and  feared  that,  with  him,  the 
9 


50  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

degree  of  her  helplessness  was  the  measure  of  her  strength. 
He  had,  as  gently  and  delicately  as  possible,  warned  the  young 
man  away  from  her.  He  had  told  him  that  marriage  was  out 
of  the  question.  What  more  could  he  do  ? 

Mr.  Benson  was  a  man  of  great  resources,  and  it  would  evi- 
dently be  necessary  to  divert  Nicholas.  The  young  lady  kneel- 
ing at  Miss  Larkin's  side  was  a  suggestive  vision,  and  that 
young  lady  suggested  several  other  young  ladies  who  were  on 
board,  but  who  had  thus  far  been  confined  to  their  state-rooms. 
Mr.  Benson  quietly  rejoiced  in  the  consciousness  of  possessing 
a  mass  of  very  promising  materials.  Certainly  the  young  man 
would  be  different  from  other  young  men  if  he  did  not  prefer  a 
woman  who  could  walk  and  dance  and  take  care  of  herself  to 
one  who  was  quite  helpless.  Nicholas  was  different  from  other 
young  men,  and,  while  Mr.  Benson  recognized  the  fact,  he  de- 
termined to  meet,  in  what  seemed  to  him  the  best  way,  all  the 
necessities  of  the  case. 

Mr.  Benson  had  other  motives  for  the  showy  promenade  he 
was  making  besides  that  of  warning  Nicholas  against  becoming 
too  much  interested  in  Miss  Larkin.  He  was  entirely  sure  that 
the  young  lady  from  whom  he  had  sought  information  in  the 
cabin  would  tell  all  her  acquaintances  about  it.  His  ostenta- 
tious friendliness  toward  the  young  man  was,  therefore,  to  be  an 
advertisement  of  the  fact  that  he,  \frth  his  nice  ideas  of  pro- 
priety, approved,  not  only  of  Nicholas  himself,  but  of  all  he  had 
done.  He  meant  to  say  to  all  the  passengers  :  "  This  young 
man  is  my  friend.  I  will  stand  between  him  and  all  harm.  A 
word  that  is  said  against  him,  or  about  him,  is  said  against,  or 
about  me.  I  know  all  that  has  happened,  and  I  approve  of  it 
all." 

He  had  a  design  beyond  this,  too,  and  it  dwelt  warmly  in  his 
mind  as — the  young  man's  arm  within  the  cordial  pressure  of  his 
own — he  paced  up  and  down  the  deck.  Nicholas  was  alone  in 
the  world,  and  he  wanted  to  be  to  him  a  father.  He  wanted  to 
inspire  him  with  confidence  and  trust, — to  make  him  feel  that 
he  had  a  wise  and  reliable  friend.  For  Nicholas  had  a  great 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  51 

estate  which  Mr.  Benson  would  only  be  too  happy  to  manage 
for  him  for  an  appropriate  consideration.  He  yearned  over  the 
young  man,  and  that  which  belonged  to  him,  with  a  tender  and 
conscientious  anxiety.  He  was  so  armored  by  pride  of  charac- 
ter and  self-esteem  that  he  had  no  suspicion  of  his  own  selfish- 
ness. He  could  have  gone  upon  his  knees  for  confession,  and 
never  mistrusted  his  disinterestedness,  or  dreamed  that  he  had! 
committed  the  sin  of  covetousness.  He  had  always  done  his 
duty  with  relation  to  every  trust  that  had  thus  far  been  com- 
mitted to  his  hands.  He  had  been  a  wise  and  thrifty  manager. 
Why  should  not  the  young  man  have  the  benefit  of  his  "wisdom, 
and  the  security  of  his  faithfulness  ? 

"  Mr.  Minturn,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "  my  employments,  which 
have  connected  me  very  closely  with  public  and  private  trusts, 
naturally  make  me  interested  in  your  affairs.  I  hope  you  have 
confided  them  to  safe  hands  ?  Of  course  yoiTthink  you  have  ; 
but  have  you  ?  You  will  pardon  me  for  asking  the  question  ; 
but  do  you  understand  business  yourself?  Are  you  familiar 
with  public  securities  ?  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  keeping  watch 
of  the  market  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Nicholas  with  great  humiliation. 

Mr.  Benson  shook  his  head,  and  said  dubiously  : 

"  Well,  let  us  hope  for  the  best." 

"  But  I  wasn't  told  about  it.  I  wasn't  brought  up  to  it,' 
said  Nicholas,  with  a  feeling  that  somebody  had  wronged  him. 

"  Yes — yes — yes — I  see." 

Mr.  Benson  nodded  in  a  hopeless  sort  of  way  that  distressed 
Nicholas  exceedingly. 

"  Who  has  the  charge  of  your  estate  ?  On  whom  do  you 
rely  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Benson. 

<;  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold  ;  and  he's  a  very  good  man." 

"  How  do  you  know,  now  ?  Who  says  so  ?  Is  he  a  man 
of  conscience — of  strong  convictions  ?  Has  he  a  large  and 
comprehensive  knowledge  of  affairs  ?  Is  he  a  man  who  follows 
duty  to  the  death  ?  Does  he  never  act  from  impulse  ?  Is  he 
proof  against  temptation  ?  " 


53  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  What  is  his  profession  ?  " 

"  He's  a  lawyer,  sir." 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Benson,  with  an  intonation 
mingled  of  distrust  and  despair. 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  lawyers  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"I  wish  to  do  no  man — I  wish  to  do  no  profession — injus- 
tice," said  Mr.  Benson  with  a  fine,  judicial  air ;  "  but  I  have 
had  a  good  deal  of  experience  with  lawyers,  and  I  feel  com 
pelled,  in  all  candor,  to  say  that  the  legal  mind  seems  to  me  to 
be  about  as  devoid  of  the  sense  of  duty  as  it  can  be.  The 
legal  mind — well,  there  is  undoubtedly  something  demoralizing 
in  the  profession.  A  man  who  will  work  for  the  wrong  for 
pay — for  pay,  mark  you — comes  at  last  not  to  see  any  difference 
between  right  and  wrong.  Knowing  what  I  do  about  the  pro- 
fession, I  have  ceased  to  expect  much  of  a  lawyer.  There  may 
be  good  men  among  lawyers, — I  suppose  there  are, — but  a 
trust  is  always  a  matter  of  business  with  them.  The  paternal 
relation  to  a  client  is  practically  unknown  among  them.  How 
it  may  be  with  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold,  I  cannot  tell,  of  course ;  but 
country  lawyers  are  petty  men,  as  a  rule.  Do  you  lean  upon 
him  ?  Do  you  look  up  to  him  as  an  example  ?  Do  you  en- 
tertain a  filial  feeling  toward  him  ?  " 

All  this  was  said  with  a  great  show  of  candor,  and  the  clos- 
ing inquiries  were  warm  and  almost  tender. 

The  idea  of  entertaining  a  filial  feeling  toward  Mr.  Gold 
amused  Nicholas,  and  he  could  not  help  laughing  as  he  replied  : 

"  No,  I  don't  lean  on  him,  and  I  don't  look  up  to  him  as  an 
example,  and  I  don't  regard  him  in  any  way  as  a  father.  He's 
as  dry  as  a  chip." 

"  Chip  !     Yes— yes— chip  !     That's  it— chip  ! " 

Mr.  Benson  nodded  his  head  half  a  dozen  times,  as  if  that 
little  word  was  charged  with  the  profoundest  meaning,  and 
ought  to  be  powerful  enough  to  fill  the  mind  of  Nicholas  with 
the  wildest  alarm. 

"I  wouldn't  make  you  uncomfortable  for  the  world,"  said 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  53 

Mr.  Benson, — lying,  without  any  question,  although  he  did  not 
know  it, — "  but  I  advise  you  as  a  man  largely  familiar  with 
trusts  to  look  well  into  your  affairs  on  your  return  home.  I 
hope  the  examination  will  not  be  made  when  it  is  too  late. 
You  will  permit  me  to  say  that  I  feel  interested  in  you,  and  i 
that  if  you  find  that  you  have  need  of  advice,  I  shall  be  happy 
to  serve  you,  in  all  those  matters  with  which  my  life  has  made 
me  unusually  familiar." 

Mr.  Benson  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  had  done  a  fair 
morning's  work.  He  had  warned  Nicholas  away  from  his  ward, 
believing  that  he  had  done  it  as  a  matter  of  personal  kindness, 
and  unconscious  that  he  was  selfishly  trying  to  retain  a  profit- 
able guardianship  and  trust ;  and  he  had  fished,  in  the  most 
ingenious  way  possible,  for  another  trust.  He  had  certainly 
made  Nicholas  thoroughly  uncomfortable,  but  he  was  as  well 
satisfied  with  himself  as  if  he  had  saved  a  life,  been  placed 
upon  a  new  board  of  directors,  or  made  a  thousand  dollars. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  recurring  mentally  to  his 
old  purpose,  but  ostensibly  changing  the  subject,  "have  you 
ever  paid  any  attention  to  heredity?  Curious  thing,  this 
heredity ! " 

"  Not  the  slightest,"  said  Nicholas,  with  a  gasp. 

"Well,  it  will  pay  for  examination,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "I 
have  never  looked  into  it  until  lately.  You  will  find  an  article 
in  the  last  '  North  American '  about  it.  This  transmission  of 
parental  peculiarities,  diseases,  weaknesses,  is  something  very 
remarkable.  I  suppose  I  owe  my  physique  to  my  mother,  and 
my  moral  qualities  to  my  father,  whatever  they  may  be.  It  is 
a  subject  which  a  young  man  like  you  cannot  too  carefully  con- 
sider. We  owe  a  duty  to  posterity,  my  young  friend,  which 
can  never  be  discharged  by  following  a  blind  impulse." 

Poor  Nicholas,  though  at  first  stunned  by  the  sudden  change 
of  subject,  could  not  fail  to  understand  the  drift  and  purpose 
of  Miss  Larkin's  guardian  ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  disgust 
that  he  paused  and  withdrew  his  arm  from  Mr.  Benson's.  He 
wanted  to  talk  more.  Under  other  circumstances,  he  would 


54  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

have  done  so.  He  wanted  to  ask  the  cause  of  Miss  Larkin's 
helplessness,  and  learn  more  about  her,  but  his  mouth  was 
stopped  ;  and  if  Mr.  Benson  could  have  read  the  young  man's 
mind  at  the  close  of  their  conversation  as  easily  as  he  did  at 
the  beginning,  he  would  have  seen  that  his  work  had  not  been 
as  successfully  performed  as  he  supposed. 

Clever  intriguers  are  quite  apt  to  overdo  their  business, 
especially  when  engaged  upon  those  who  are  recognized  as 
frank  and  unsuspicious.  They  are  apt  to  forget  that  an  un- 
sophisticated instinct  is  quite  as  dangerous  a  detective  as  a 
trained  and  calculating  craftiness.  It  was  hard  for  Nicholas  to 
realize  that  he  had  been  carefully  manipulated  by  one  to  whom 
he  had  been  tempted  to  open  his  heart,  but  he  did  realize 
it,  with  a  degree  of  indignation  which  made  him  profoundly 
unhappy. 

He  did  not  undertake  to  deny  to  himself  that  he  was  much 
interested  in  Miss  Larkin.  He  could  not  think  of  her  as  an 
incurable  invalid.  Possibilities  had  opened  themselves  to  him 
with  an  attractive  aspect,  which  was  at  once  eclipsed  by  the 
interposition  of  Mr.  Benson's  majestic  figure.  This  strong, 
inflexible  man  had  come  by  stealthy  and  well-calculated  steps 
between  him  and  a  strange,  new  light  which  had  charmed  him. 
He  could  not  have  chosen  to  do  otherwise  than  mentally  to 
resent  what  seemed  a  gratuitous  and  ungentlemanly  intrusion. 

Of  all  this  revulsion  of  feeling  in  the  mind  of  the  young 
man,  Mr.  Benson  was  unconscious,  and  he  parted  with  him  as 
courteously  and  heartily  as  if  he  were  his  own  son,  with  whom 
he  had  been  enjoying  the  most  free  and  loving  communion. 

Then  Mr.  Benson  had  other  business  to  do.  Nicholas  was 
to  be  diverted.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  kept  the  young  man 
to  himself  and  his  little  party.  He  had  not  only  not  intro- 
duced him  to  others,  but  he  had  not  told  any  one  about  him. 
So,  on  speaking  to  different  groups  that  morning,  he  managed 
to  introduce  Nicholas  as  a  topic  of  conversation.  The  young 
man's  good  character,  his  fine  education,  his  fortune,  his  unoc- 
cupied home,  which  Mr.  Benson  had  learned  from  his  friend, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  55 

Mra.  Fleming,  was  quite  a  palace — all  these  were  presented  to 
appropriate  listeners.  Mr.  Benson  knew  just  where  the  ladies 
were  whom  he  wished  to  have  presented  to  the  acquaintance 
of  his  young  friend,  so  soon  as  they  should  be  released  from 
their  sea-sickness. 

It  was  a  touching  sight  which  presented  itself  that  day  at  the 
side  of  Miss  Larkin.  Elderly  ladies,  who  had  not  paid  her  the 
slightest  attention  up  to  this  point,  presented  themselves,  and 
inquired  for  her  health.  Sometimes  there  would  be  two  or 
three  young  and  pretty  girls  kneeling  around  her.  It  was  some- 
thing to  be  near  the  young  woman  whom  Nicholas  had  carried 
down-stairs  !  It  was  something,  at  least,  to  be  at  the  center  of 
what  seemed  the  circle  of  interest  that  enchained  him.  The 
first  day  after  it  became  generally  understood  that  Nicholas  was 
rich  and  fancy  free,  the  amount  of  sympathy  and  society  enjoyed 
by  Miss  Larkin  was  remarkable.  She  was  petted  and  read  to ; 
and  she  received  so  much  gracious  ministry  that  the  work  of 
Miss  Bruce  was  quite  taken  out  of  her  hands.  Perhaps  it  was 
a  coincidence  !  Perhaps  they  were  unconscious  of  their  own 
motives  !  At  any  rate,  they  formed  a  pretty  group,  and  quite 
shut  Nicholas  away  from  her  during  most  of  the  day. 

There  are  certain  villages  in  Vermont  and  Maine  in  which  a 
city  gentleman  never  arrives  at  night  without  arousing  the  sus- 
picion that  he  is  looking  for  a  horse.  It  is  not  even  necessary 
that  he  should  inquire  of  the  landlord,  in  the  most  careless  way, 
if  he  knows  whether  there  is  a  good  horse  in  town  that  is  for 
sale.  Every  jockey  is  on  the  alert,  and  the  next  morning, 
without  visiting  a  stable,  he  has  only  to  take  his  seat  upon  the 
piazza,  or  look  from  his  window,  to  see  every  horse  in  town 
driven  or  ridden  by  the  house.  High-stepping  horses,  rakish 
little  mares,  steady-going  roadsters,  amiable-looking  family 
beasts,  graceful  saddle  animals,  go  up  and  down,  and  he  may 
take  his  pick  of  them  all,  or  go  on  to  the  next  village. 

It  may  seem  ungracious  to  say  that  Nicholas  came  soon  to 
be  regarded  on  the  steamer  in  very  much  the  same  way  by  those 
who  had  young  women  on  hand  for  disposal,  as  the  horse-hunter 


56  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

is  regarded  in  one  of  those  villages,  but  truthfulness  demand* 
the  statement.  There  was  not  a  woman  with  a  young  lady  in 
charge  who  did  not  intend  that,  in  some  way,  that  charge 
should  have  a  chance.  Mothers  and  chaperons  and  duennas 
were  busy  with  their  schemes  of  exhibition.  They  courted  Mr. 
Benson,  who  understood  the  matter  perfectly,  and  smiled  gra- 
ciously upon  it.  They  courted  Miss  Larkin,  who  did  not  un- 
derstand it  at  all.  They  even  courted  Miss  Bruce,  who  was 
anything  but  gracious  in  the  reception  of  their  attentions. 

There  was  Mrs.  Ilmansee,  with  her  pretty  sister,  Miss  Pelton. 
Mrs.  Ilmansee  was  as  bold  and  prompt  as  a  drum -major.  She 
was  young,  fresh  from  the  field  of  conquest  herself,  quick  to 
seize  advantage,  and  armed  with  personal  attractions  of  her 
own,  with  which  to  carve  her  way.  A  calculating  mother  may 
be  written  down  as  nothing  and  nowhere  by  the  side  of  an  en- 
terprising married  sister.  There  was  Mrs.  Morgan,  with  her 
stately  daughter,  the  latter  bearing  promise  of  an  amplitude 
that  would  match  her  altitude — sweet,  monosyllabic  and  inane. 
There  was  Mrs.  Coates,  a  pudgy  little  woman,  dragging  at  her 
sharply  sounding  heels  a  reluctant  girl,  who  was  heartily 
ashamed  of  the  maternal  vulgarity,  and  who  went  into  the 
enterprise  of  making  the  young  man's  acquaintance,  or  attract- 
ing his  notice,  with  poorly  concealed  disgust.  There  was  the 
fashionable,  self-assured,  gracious  Mrs.  McGregor,  with  diamond 
knobs  in  her  ears,  and  a  buxom  little  hoyden  just  out  of  school, 
who  thought  it  all  great  fun.  There  were  others  who  might, 
but  need  not  be,  mentioned;  and  every  woman  and  every  girl 
understood  what  every  maneuver  meant,  and  had  the  impres- 
sion that  neither  Mr.  Benson  nor  Nicholas  comprehended  it  at 
all.  All  were  interested  in  Miss  Larkin,  and  all  were  appro- 
priately unconscious  of  the  presence  of  Nicholas  at  her  side, — 
unconscious  even  of  his  being  a  passenger  on  the  steamer. 

It  was  two  mornings  after  Mr.  Benson's  promenade  and  con- 
versation with  Nicholas  that  the  former  reached  the  culmina- 
tion of  his  schemes.  The  recluses  had  all  emerged  from  their 
hiding-places ;  and  when  he  went  upon  deck,  Miss  Larkin  had 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  57 

collected  her  disinterested  adorers  in  a  chattering,  officious 
group.  Nicholas  was  entirely  shut  away,  and  was  pacing  up 
and  down  the  deck  alone. 

"  My  young  friend,  this  will  never  do,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  ap- 
proaching Nicholas.  "  So  much  young  beauty,  and  no  young 
man  to  appreciate  it,  is  all  wrong.  You  must  know  these 
people." 

Nicholas  protested,  but  Mr.  Benson  quietly  drew  him  toward 
the  group. 

"  Ladies,  here  is  a  lonely  young  man,"  said  he,  "  and  I  want 
you  to  help  to  make  him  at  home." 

Nicholas  raised  his  hat,  and,  with  a  warm  blush  upon  his 
face,  went  through  the  process  of  being  presented.  It  was  a 
long  one,  and  his  bows  grew  shorter  and  shorter  until  the  last, 
which  was  so  short  and  impatient  that  they  all  laughed  and 
poured  in  their  commiserations  upon  him. 

"  And  now  let  us  all  have  chairs  ! "  said  Mr.  Benson,  with 
benignant  emphasis ;  and  then  he  and  Nicholas  nearly  ex- 
hausted the  resources  of  the  deck  in  securing  seats  for  the 
party 

"  The  young  with  the  young,"  said  Mrs.  Ilmansee,  "  and 
Mr.  Minturn  by  me." 

The  elderly  women  raised  their  eyebrows,  and  exchanged 
glances  with  the  young  ladies.  Mrs.  Ilmansee  had  made  her- 
self pert  and  unpleasant  from  the  beginning  of  the  voyage ;  but 
Nicholas  took  the  seat  saved  for  him,  and  found  himself  en- 
sconced between  Mrs.  Ilmansee  and  her  pretty  sister. 

"  I  declare,"  said  pudgy  Mrs.  Coates,  "  this  is  real  good. 
It  seems  like  a  nieetin'.  Now,  if  Mr.  Benson  would  only 
preach  to  us  " — and  she  gave  him  a  bland  smile — "  we  could 
improve  ourselves.  I  said  to  Mr.  Coates  before  I  started — 
says  I,  '  What  is  travel  for,  unless  it's  for  improvement  ? ' 
Didn't  I,  Jenny  ?  " 

The  young  lady  appealed  to  was  on  the  outside  of  the  group, 
biting  her  lips,  but,  as  all  turned  to  her,  she  was  obliged  to 
reply  : 

3* 


58  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  They  will  believe  you,  mother.  They  wil  recognize  the 
need  of  it,  at  least."  The  last  in  an  undertone. 

"  Yes,  that's  just  what  I  told  him,"  she  went  on,  unmindful 
of  the  irony.  "  '  People  who  have  been  raised  as  we  were  need 
improving,'  says  I.  '  We  need  to  cultivate  our  minds,  and  em- 
brace all  our  opportunities,  and  give  our  offspring  the  best 
advantages.'  Haven't  I  said  that  to  him,  Jenny,  often  and 
often?" 

Mrs.  Coates  was  intent  on  keeping  Jenny  under  notice,  and 
that  young  lady,  who  was  smarting  in  every  sensitive  fibre  of 
her  soul,  said  : 

"  Yes,  mother.     Please  don't  appeal  to  me." 

The  other  mothers  were  disgusted,  and  started  little  conver- 
sations among  themselves.  The  young  ladies  looked  into  each 
other's  faces  and  tittered. 

"People  who  haven't  had  advantages,"  continued  Mrs. 
Coates,  warming  to  her  topic,  "  know  what  they've  lost,  and 
they  naterally  give  them  to  their  offspring.  When  Mr.  Coates 
become  forehanded,  says  I  to  him,  '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  what- 
ever we  do,  let  us  give  advantages  to  our  offspring — the  very 
best.'  And  we've  done  it.  They  say  praise  to  the  face  is  open 
disgrace,  but  I  remember  saying  to  him  at  one  time,  says  I, 
'  Mr.  Coates,  look  at  Mr.  Benson.  See  what  he's  done  by  im- 
proving his  advantages  and  embracing  his  opportunities.  He's 
a  model  man,'  says  I.  Didn't  I,  Jenny  ?  " 

'c  I  presume  so,"  returned  that  annoyed  young  woman,  in  a 
tone  that  indicated  that  she  presumed  that  her  mother  had 
said  every  foolish  thing  that  could  be  said. 

The  other  ladies  had  heard  it  all,  and  were  quite  willing  that 
Mrs.  Coates  should  make  herself  and  her  daughter  as  ridicu- 
lous as  possible  ;  but  Mr.  Benson  did  not  care  to  have  hei 
made  ridiculous  at  his  expense;  so  he  tried  to  change  the  con 
versation,  and  make  it  more  general. 

"We  owe  duties  to  our  offspring,  of  course,"  said  Mi.  Ben 
son,  in  his  magnificent  way,  "  and  I  presume  that  all  of  ui 
recognize  them  ;  but  our  duties  in  this  world  are  many." 

V 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  59 

"  Oh,  do  talk  !  "  said  Mrs.  Coates. 

"  Duty,  you  all  know,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  quite  will- 
ing to  take  the  conversation  out  of  Mrs.  Coates' s  clumsy 
hands,  "  has  been  the  watchword  of  my  life." 

"Isn't  it  grand  !"  interjected  Mrs.  Coates,  smiling  upon  the 
group,  as  if  they  had  been  caught  in  a  shower  of  pearls  without 
umbrellas. 

"  Duty,"  Mr.  Benson  went  on,  "  I  have  found,  in  a  long 
and  eventful  life,  to  be  the  only  efficient  and  safe  guide  and 
inspiration  to  action — duty  founded  in  conscience  and  judg- 
ment." 

"  Conscience  and  judgment,"  whispered  Mrs.  Coates. 

"  Duty  intelligently  comprehended  and  conscientiously  per- 
formed, to  the  utmost  requirement,  I  regard  as  the  only  safe 
basis  of  life.  The  morning  breeze" — Mr.  Benson  was  on 
favorite  and  familiar  ground,  and  delighted  in  his  own  elo- 
quence— "  The  morning  breeze  is  very  sweet.  It  fans  our 
temples,  it  stirs  the  trees,  it  drinks  the  dew "  ("  Isn't  it 
lovely  !  "  from  Mrs.  Coates,  in  a  whisper),  "  but  before  the 
fervors  of  noon  it  dies.  It  is  only  the  sun  that  keeps  on,  and 
on,  performing  its  daily  round  of  service  for  the  earth  and  its 
millions.  Impulse  and  duty,  as  motives  of  action,  are  much 
like  these.  Impulse  is  short-lived,  fitful,  incompetent  for  the 
long,  strong  tasks  of  life.  Duty  only  carries  the  steady,  effi- 
cient hand.  Mrs.  Coates  has  kindly  alluded  to  me,  and  I  may 
say  that  to  the  careful  performance  of  duty,  as  I  have  appre- 
hended it,  I  owe  all  my  reputation,  such  as  it  is,  and  all  my 
successes." 

"  I  hate  duty ! "  Nicholas  blurted  out,  with  an  impulse  that 
covered  his  face  with  crimson. 

The  ladies  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  Mrs.  Coates  was 
aghast  and  shook  her  head,  with  her  eye  on  Jenny,  who  seemed 
strangely  to  enjoy  the  expression. 

"The  young  hate  a  master,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  without 
the  least  perturbation,  and  with  a  tone  of  compassion  in  his 
voice.  "Duty  is  a  master — stern,  but  kind.  The  young 


60  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

rebel,  and  find  too  late  that  they  have  missed  the  tru  e  secret 
of  success." 

"I  hate  success  too,"  said  Nicholas.  "  ^ome  men  make  a 
god  of  it,  and  worship  nothing  else." 

Miss  Jenny  Coates  was  getting  interested.  Miss  Larkin  and 
Miss  Bruce  exchanged  smiling  glances.  The  other  young 
ladies  were  bored,  while  good  Mrs.  Coates  could  only  murmur : 
"  Oh  !  "  and  "  How  strange  !  " 

Mr.  Benson  regarded  the  young  man  with  a  smile  made  up 
of  benignity  and  superciliousness,  and  responded  with  the 
questions : 

"  Why  do  you  hate  duty,  and  why  do  you  hate  success  ?" 

"I  should  like  to  know;  wouldn't  you,  Jenny?"  said  Mrs. 
Coates. 

Nicholas  found  himself  in  what  he  regarded  as  a  tight  place. 
He  had  launched  upon  a  sea  comparatively  unknown  to  him, 
and  he  had  never  accustomed  himself  to  discussion,  particu- 
larly with  the  eyes  of  twenty  ladies  upon  him.  He  had  only 
intended,  indeed,  to  make  a  personal  confession.  He  had  not 
intended  controversy  at  all.  He  knew  that  he  had  no  well- 
formed  opinion  upon  the  subject.  He  knew  what  he  felt,  and 
he  believed  that  he  saw  the  truth,  but  he  was  quite  at  a  loss  to 
construct  his  argument. 

"Why  do  you  hate  duty,  now?"  Mr.  Benson  reiterated,  as 
if  lie  only  waited  for  the  answer  to  demolish  it  with  a  breath. 

"  Because  it  makes  a  sort  of  commercial  thing  of  life,"  re- 
sponded Nicholas,  his  color  rising.  "  Because  it  is  nothing  but 
the  paying  of  a  debt.  I  can  see  how  justice  has  relation  to  the 
paying  of  a  debt,  but  I  don't  see  how  goodness  has  anything  to 
do  with  it." 

"  All  action  is  good  or  bad,  young  man^^a'id  Mi.  Benson, 
with  a  tone  of  mild  reproof  in  his  voice.  "All  action  is  good 
or  bad.  In  which  category  will  you  place  the  paying  of  a 
debt?" 

"  All  things  are  sweet  or  sour,"  replied  Nicholas,  getting  ex- 
cited. "  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  cold  water  ?  " 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  61 

It  was  becoming  interesting.  Even  the  bored  young  ladies 
were  moved  to  admiration  of  this  cunningness  of  fence,  and  the 
distant  Miss  Coates,  her  keen  black  eyes  glowing  with  interest, 
moved  nearer. 

"  That's  right,  Jenny,  come  up  where  you  can  hear  what  Mr. 
Benson  says,"  said  Mrs.  Coates. 

Mr.  Benson  was  exceedingly  annoyed.  Nicholas  had  sur- 
prised him,  but  he  kept  his  air  of  candor,  toleration  and  easy 
superiority. 

"  I  did  not  think  my  young  friend  would  indulge  in  such  a 
sophistry,"  he  said. 

"  I  did  not  mean  it  for  a  sophistry,"  responded  Nicholas. 
"  I  did  not,  I  assure  you.  I  was  thinking — if  you'll  excuse  me 
for  mentioning  it — of  my  mother.  I  was  thinking  of  what  she 
did  for  me,  and  how  she  never  dreamed  of  the  word  duty  in  all 
her  sacrifices.  From  the  time  I  was  born,  she  did  her  duty  to 
me,  if  you  please,  but  it  was  only  the  natural  expression  of  her 
love.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  love  is  so  much  a  higher 
motive  than  a  sense  of  duty,  that  a  sense  of  duty  is  a  paltry 
thing  by  the  side  of  it." 

"  Your  filial  gratitude  and  appreciation  do  you  great  credit," 
said  Mr.  Benson,  patronizingly,  "  but  feeling  is  very  apt  to  mis- 
lead. The  judgment  and  the  instructed  conscience,  united 
with  a  sense  of  responsibility,  are  the  only  safe  guides.  A 
mother's  fondness  often  makes  her  foolish.  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  your  mother  was  wise,  which  was  a  fortunate  thing 
for  you.  A  well-instructed  sense  of  duty,  however,  might  have 
induced  her  to  do  for  you  many  things  different  from  what  she 
did.  The  fact  is,"  and  Mr.  Benson  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and 
inserted  his  thumbs  into  the  holes  of  his  waistcoat — "  the  fact 
is,  impulse  hast  no  hold  upon  wisdom,  and  without  wisdom, 
conscientiously  followed  in  all  its  dictates,  man  is  like  a  ship, 
not  only  without  a  rudder,  but  without  any  steady  and  reliable 
propelling  power." 

"Did  you  hear  that,  Jenny?"  inquired  Mrs.  Coates. 

"Well,  now  I  tell  you  how  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Nicholas^ 


62  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

excitedly.  "  A  sense  of  duty  is  like  a  sailing  vessel,  that  has 
to  calculate  which  way  the  wind  blows,  and  how  to  i  »ake  the 
most  of  it ;  to  tack  constantly  among  contending  forces,  always 
getting  out  of  the  way  by  errors  of  judgment  and  miscalcula 
tion  of  currents,  while  love  is  like  a  steamer  that  goes  by  a 
sense  of  fire — goes  through  thick  and  thin  by  a  force  inside 
That's  the  way  it  seems  to  me." 

Mr.  Benson  was  as  well  aware  as  the  women  around  him, 
with  the  exception  of  the  blindly  admiring  Mrs.  Coates,  that  he 
was  getting  worsted.  Not  only  this,  but  he  was  more  uncom- 
fortably conscious  than  he  ever  was  before  that  there  were  weak 
places  in  his  armor  ;  but  he  simply  responded  : 

"  Sophistry  again,  sophistry  again  !  The  young  are  prone  to 
it.  Experience  is  a  better  teacher  than  argument.  It  is  a 
comfort  to  feel  that  a  life  as  long  as  mine  will  conduct  my 
young  friend  safely  to  my  conclusions." 

The  conversation  was  not  one  to  which  much  could  be 
contributed  by  the  company  of  comparative  strangers.  The 
older  ones  were  interested  in  it,  in  some  degree,  especially  as 
it  gave  them  an  opportunity  to  study  Nicholas.  Their  hearts 
were,  with  the  exception  already  made,  entirely  with  the  young 
man.  His  frank  and  affectionate  allusion  to  his  mother  had 
touched  them.  The  difficulty  which  he  had  evidently  expe- 
rienced in  overcoming  his  bashfulness,  so  far  as  to  be  able 
to  talk  in  their  presence,  engaged  their  sympathy.  They  saw 
him  get  into  the  discussion  accidentally,  and  go  through  it  tri- 
umphantly, and  they  were  pleased.  Mrs.  Ilmansee  whispered 
her  congratulations  into  his  ear. 

Not  the  least  interested  in  the  group  were  Miss  Larkin  and 
Miss  Bruce.  They  had  often  heard  Mr.  Benson  expatiate  upon 
his  hobby  ad  nauseam.  They  had  never  undertaken  to  con- 
trovert his  notions,  because  of  the  proud  tenacity  with  which 
he  held  them,  and  of  the  relations  existing  between  him  and 
themselves.  For  any  one  living  under  his  official  protection, 
to  doubt  him,  would  have  been  treason ;  yet  Miss  Larkin  was 
moved  to  say,  irx  tfoe  attempt  to  break  an  awkward  pause : 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  63 

"Mr.  Benson,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  haven't  quite  arrived 
at  a  comprehension  of  the  difference  between  duty  and  love, 
as  motives  of  action." 

"  Let  us  hear  the  wisdom  of  woman,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  with 
a  patronizing  smile. 

There  was  a  spice  of  insult  in  the  tone,  and  Miss  Larkin  felt 
it,  and  showed  it  in  her  coloring  cheeks. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  "  that  love  gives  outright  what 
duty  pays  as  a  debt.  One  is  a  commonplace  act,  repeated 
over  every  tradesman's  counter  every  hour  in  the  day,  while  the 
other  is  glorified  by  its  own  grace." 

Miss  Coates  clapped  her  hands  so  heartily  that  everybody 
laughed,  including  Mr.  Benson,  who  saw  his  way  out  of  his  diffi- 
culty only  by  playfully  declaring  it  all  a  conspiracy. 

Miss  Larkin,  having  found  her  voice,  continued  : 

"  Now,  Mr.  Benson,  tell  me  where  the  world  would  be  if  it 
had  missed  the  grand  enthusiasms  which  the  love  of  liberty,  the 
love  of  humanity,  and  the  love  of  God,  have  inspired  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  pertinent  question,"  he  responded,  "  and  here  is 
another.  Where  would  the  world  be  if,  when  love  had  died  and 
enthusiasm  expended  itself,  a  sense  of  duty  had  not  remained 
to  complete  their  results  ?  That  is  precisely  the  point.  Why, 
our  very  churches  are  supported  three-quarters  of  every  year  by 
a  sense  of  duty.  The  love  and  enthusiasm  are  gone,  and  what 
but  a  sense  of  duty  remains  ?  Do  love  and  enthusiasm  carry 
on  a  government  after  some  great  war  in  which  liberty  has 
been  won?  Not  at  all — not  at  all.  That  is  precisely  the 
point " 

Mr.  Benson  was  comfortably  sure  that  he  had  gained  that 
point. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  if  the  love  and  enthusiasm  should 
remain  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Larkin,  meekly. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  We  are  obliged  to  take  human 
nature  as  we  find  it.  The  ephemeral  and  permanent  forces  of 
society  are  what  they  are.  I  do  not  feel  in  the  least  respon- 
sible for  them." 


64  NICHOLAS  M1NTURN. 

"  Then  it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  obliged  to  use  the  sense  of 
duty  for  something  that  we  feel  to  be  better,"  responded  Miss 
Larkin. 

"Feeling  a  thing  to  be  better,  my  child,  doesn't  make  it 
better,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "  Feeling  is  a  very  poor  guide.  It 
is  no  guide  at  all.  It  is  a  will-o'-the-wisp." 

Miss  Larkin  was  put  down.  It  was  Mr.  Benson's  policy 
always  to  put  women  down. 

Miss  Coates  had  been  aching  to  talk.  She  had  been  intensely 
interested  in  the  conversation.  She  had  drawn  nearer  and 
nearer  the  speakers,  until  she  was  in  the  center  of  the  group, 
very  much  to  her  mother's  delight,  who  nudged  her,  and  made 
little  exclamations  to  her  as  the  conversation  progressed.  Her 
black  eyes  flashed  as  she  said  : 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Benson,  but  I  think — if  a  woman  may  be 
permitted  to  think — that  I  can  tell  you  what  is  done,  both  in 
churches  and  governments,  when  love  and  enthusiasm  die  out, 
and  done,  too,  from  a  sense  of  duty.  The  most  horrible  deeds 
the  world  has  ever  known  were  done  from  a  sense  of  duty. 
The  rack  and  the  thumb-screw  have  been  its  instruments.  Per- 
secutions, tortures,  murders, — these  have  all  been  perpetrated 
in  obedience  to  a  sense  of  duty.  The  sweetest  Christians  the 
world  has  ever  known  have  been  hunted  down  for  heresy, — 
for  using  the  liberty  with  which  love  endowed  them  to  think  for 
themselves, — all  from  a  sense  of  duty.  It  has  blindly  com- 
mitted crimes  from  which  love  would  have  shrunk — deeds  which 
love  would  have  known  were  crimes.  Of  all  the  blind  bats  that 
ever  fluttered  through  the  darkness  of  this  world,  it  seems  to  me 
the  sense  of  duty  is  the  blindest.  It  assumes  so  many  forms,  it 
calculates,  and  weighs,  and  computes  so  much ;  it  has  so  many 
objects  so  many  conflicting  claims;  it  is  so  divorced  nt>m 
every  touch  and  quality  of  generosity,  that  I  hate  it,  I  believe, 
as  much  as  Mr.  Minturn  does." 

Miss  Coates  had  evidently  had  "  advantages,"  and  had  made 
the  most  of  them.  She  had  seen  Miss  Larkin  put  down,  had 
gauged  the  spirit  of  her  guardian,  and  had  entered  the  lists  for 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  65 

her  sex.     She  was  full  of  fight.     There  was  nothing  for  Mi 
Benson  to  do  but  to  join  battle,  or  retreat 

"  Why,  Jenny  !     I  believe  you  are  crazy,"  said  Mrs.  Coates 

"  I  presume  so,"  she  responded. 

"  Mrs.  McGregor,"  said  Mr.  Benson  to  the  lady  with  the 
diamond  knobs,  "  I  think  our  conversation  must  have  grown 
insufferably  dull  to  you.  Suppose  we  try  a  promenade  upon 
the  deck." 

Miss  Coates  knew  that  the  "  insufferably  dull "  was  intended 
to  apply  to  her  own  remarks,  and  that  his  leaving  the  group 
was  intended  to  put  her  down,  by  indicating  that  those  remarks 
were  considered  unworthy  of  a  reply. 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  grieved  Mr.  Benson,"  said  her 
mother. 

Grieving  Mr.  Benson  was,  to  Mrs.  Coates,  the  commission 
of  a  sin. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Miss  Coates. 

"  Why,  I  thought  his  remarks  were  very  improving,"  said  the 
mother. 

"  Yes,  they  quite  moved  me." 

"  How  could  you  talk  so  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

Nicholas  had  found  another  girl  who  did  not  giggle.  The 
mother  was  a  pill  hard  to  swallow,  but  the  daughter  was  a 
sparkling  draught.  He  had  been  attracted  to  her  from  the  first 
by  sympathy.  He  saw  at  once  that  she  was  a  sufferer  from  her 
mother's  gaucheries,  and  he  pitied  her.  Her  little  speech, 
rattled  off  excitedly,  moved  his  admiration.  He  saw  her 
snubbed  by  Mr.  Benson.  He  saw  the  disgusted  look  on  the 
faces  of  the  older  ladies,  who  seemed  to  regard  her,  not  only 
as  cff  color  socially  on  account  of  her  vulgar  mother,  but  as 
pert  and  unmaidenly.  So,  after  Mr.  Benson  retired,  and  the 
little  colloquy  with  her  mother,  which  had  been  carried  on  in 
an  undertone,  was  finished,  he  said  : 

"  Miss  Coates,  I  congratulate  you." 

"  Thank  you ! "  and  she  rose  with  her  mother,  gave  a  pleas- 


66  NICHOLAS  M1NTURN. 

ant  good-morning  to  Miss  Larkin,  and  a  bow  to  Nicnolas,  and 
went  down-stairs. 

"  Let's  walk,"  said  Mrs.  Ilmansee  to  Nicholas ;  and  Nicho- 
las could  do  no  less  than  offer  her  his  arm. 

"  Will  you  go,  too,  darling  ?  "  she  said  to  her  sister  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  dear." 

"  Do  go  ! "  said  Nicholas. 

"Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,"  said  Miss  Pelton;  and  Nicholas 
moved  off  with  a  stunning  figure  almost  affectionately  leaning 
on  each  arm. 

Miss  Larkin  saw  the  pretty  operation,  and  smiled.  She  had 
already  learned  Nicholas  too  well  to  suspect  that  he  could  pos- 
sibly care  for  either.  Nicholas  walked  with  them  until  they 
were  tired,  and  then  he  captured  the  stately  Miss  Morgan,  and 
succeeded  in  wearying  her  in  a  few  minutes.  Little  Miss 
McGregor  was  quite  lively  enough  for  him,  but  she  giggled  in- 
cessantly, and  he  was  glad  to  restore  her  to  her  seat.  He 
looked  for  Miss  Coates,  and  wondered  at  his  disappointment 
when  he  ascertained  that  she  had  disappeared.  He  had  shown 
no  partiality,  he  had  pleased  them  all ;  but  he  felt  that  he  had 
rather  a  large  job  on  hand.  To  be  satisfactorily  agreeable  to 
half  a  dozen  ladies  within  sight  of  each  other,  would  have  puz- 
zled an  older  man  than  Nicholas ;  but  he  was  sufficiently  sur- 
prised with  himself,  and  sufficiently  conscious  of  rapid  growth 
to  look  the  future  in  the  face  without  apprehension. 

He  had  just  turned  away  from  Miss  McGregor  when  it  was 
announced  that  a  strange  steamer  was  in  sight  off  the  lee  bow. 
In  a  moment  all  was  excitement,  and  everybody  but  Miss  Lar- 
kin rushed  leeward  to  get  a  view  of  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN   WHICH   NICHOLAS    GIVES    UP   HIS   PLAN   OF  TRAVEL    IN    MID 
OCEAN,    AND    STARTS   ON   HIS   HOMEWARD   VOYAGK. 

COMPANIONSHIP  on  the  great  sea  is  much  like  companion- 
ship in  an  adventurous  and  far-reaching  life.  Near  the  shore, 
there  is  plenty  of  it — fishing-smacks,  clumsy  coasters,  lumber- 
ing merchantmen,  officious  pilots  offering  to  guide  everybody 
safely  into  port  for  a  consideration,  tugs  and  tows,  and  showy 
little  steamers,  bright  with  paint,  flaming  with  flags,  and  draw- 
ing much  attention  and  little  water.  A  thousand  miles  at  sea, 
however,  companionship  is  always  a  surprise  and  a  pleasant 
novelty.  A  great  ship  meets  a  great  ship  in  mid-ocean  as  a 
great  soul  meets  a  great  soul  in  life.  Both  are  seeking  distant 
ports  through  common  dangers.  Each  has  its  individual  force, 
and  its  individual  law,  so  that  they  cannot  remain  long  togeth- 
er. A  courteous  dipping  of  their  colors,  an  ephemeral  sense 
of  society,  and  they  part,  perhaps  forever.  Great  ships  that 
make  great  voyages  are  always  lonely  ships.  Great  men  that 
lead  great  lives  have  always  lonely  lives. 

It  is  presumed  that  pudgy  Mrs.  Coates  never  thought  of  this. 
It  is  quite  probable  that  the  thought  did  not  occur  to  her  sen- 
sible and  sensitive  daughter.  The  passengers  of  a  ship  iden- 
tify themselves  with  it  in  such  a  way  that  they  cannot  imagine 
a  vessel  lonely  which  has  them  on  board.  The  lives  that  a 
great  man  attracts  to  him,  or  trails  behind  him,  imagine  that 
they  furnish  him  with  society,  but  he  has  no  sense  of  it.  It  is 
only  when  another  great  man  comes  in  sight,  moved  by  the 
same  ambitions  and  high  purposes  with  himself,  that  he  has  a 
sense  of  grand  companionship.  He  knows,  however,  that  it 
cannot  last  long;  but  the  mutual  recognition  is  a  help  while 
it  lasts,  and  lingers  always  as  a  pleasure  in  the  memory. 


68  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

The  steamer  discovered  from  the  deck  of  the  "Ariadne" 
was  one  of  her  own  size,  which  had  probably  left  port  en  the 
same  day  with  her,  and  was  bound  for  the  same  destination. 
She  had  sailed  on  a  nearly  parallel  course,  evidently,  which 
was  gradually  approaching  that  of  the  "  Ariadne."  Her  smoke 
lay  in  a  long,  dim  line  behind  her,  and,  to  the  naked  eye.  she 
seemed  like  a  pigmy ;  but  her  appearance  threw  all  the  pas- 
sengers into  a  delightful  excitement.  The  somewhat  grave 
conversation  of  the  morning  was  forgotten  in  the  new  object  of 
interest ;  glasses  were  passed  from  hand  to  hand  ;  the  captain 
was  consulted,  speculations  were  indulged  in,  calculations  were 
made  as  to  whether  she  were  gaining  or  losing  in  her  race  with 
the  "  Ariadne,"  and  all  the  talk  was  made  about  her  that  could 
possibly  be  suggested  in  a  company  that  had  nothing  else  to  do. 

She  hung  upon  the  edge  of  the  horizon  all  the  morning  and 
all  the  afternoon,  keeping,  apparently,  an  even  beam  with  the 
"  Ariadne,"  though  very  gradually  approaching  ;  but  no  one  on 
board  expected  to  see  her  again  as  he  caught  the  last  glimpse 
of  her  light  streaming  toward  him  when  he  retired  to  his  bed. 
It  was  deemed  remarkable  that  she  should  have  remained  in 
sight  so  long ;  but  there  was  not  a  man  or  woman  of  them  all 
who,  on  arising  on  the  following  morning,  did  not  at  once  seek 
the  deck  to  learn  whether  she  were  still  in  her  place.  Indeed, 
many  of  them  rose  earlier  than  usual,  moved  by  curiosity  with 
relation  to  her. 

There,  indeed,  she  was,  just  where  they  had  left  her,  save 
that  she  was  a  little  nearer  to  them.  Her  black  hull  stood 
higher  out  of  the  water  ;  her  smoke-stack  was  more  plainly  de- 
nned ;  her  plume  of  smoke  was  blacker  and  larger.  She 
sailed  as  if  bound  to  the  "  Ariadne  "  by  an  invisible  cable  that 
shrank  gradually,  but  perceptibly,  from  hour  to  hour. 

Another  incident  had  occurred  on  the  voyage  which  had 
awakened  a  good  deal  of  interest  among  the  passengers. 
Forty-eight  hours  after  leaving  port,  two  birds  had  appeared  by 
the  side  of  the  steamer,  flying  with  her  day  and  night,  until  it 
seemed  as  if  they  must  die  of  fatigue.  Some  watched  them 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  69 

with  painful,  pitying  interest ;  others  declared  that  it  was  a 
common  thing,  and  that  the  birds  enjoyed  it,  and  knew  what 
they  were  about.  Very  soon,  however,  they  became  a  part  of 
the  voyage,  and  speculations  were  indulged  in  concerning  theii 
power  to  keep  up  the  flight  across  the  ocean.  Those  who  had 
keen  sight  and  sensitive  apprehensions  saw  that  the  birds  were 
tired  and  that  an  end  must  come.  They  made  occasional 
feints  of  alighting  upon  the  steamer,  and  then  flew  away, 
evidently  afraid  of  the  tempting  resting-place. 

On  the  first  day  after  the  appearance  of  the  strange  steamer, 
Mr.  Benson  sat  alone  upon  the  deck,  occasionally  raising  his 
marine  glass  to  look  at  her.  Others  were  not  far  off,  but,  at  the 
time,  no  one  was  with  him.  Miss  Larkin  and  Miss  Bruce  were 
on  the  other  side  of  the  deck  in  their  usual  place,  and  the 
other  passengers  were  promenading,  or  grouped  here  and  there 
in  conversation. 

As  he  withdrew  his  glass  from  his  eyes,  he  saw  one  of  the 
birds  fall  into  the  water.  It  was  dead.  The  other  circled  once 
around  it,  then  made  for  the  steamer,  and  alighted  at  Mr. 
Benson's  feet.  Whether  it  was  from  a  feeling  that  the  bird  was 
unclean  and  might  harm  him ;  whether  it  was  from  a  sense  of 
sudden  annoyance,  or  whether  it  was  from  a  superstitious 
impulse,  it  is  probable  that  Mr.  Benson  himself  did  not  know ; 
but  he  kicked  the  half-dead,  helpless  little  creature  away  from 
him.  Many  had  noticed  the  fall  of  the  bird,  and  its  violent 
and  ungracious  repulse,  and  the  exclamation,  "  Oh,  don't ! " 
went  up  on  every  side. 

Nicholas  started  from  Miss  Larkin's  chair  upon  a  run, 
reached  the  bird  before  half  a  dozen  others  who  had  started 
for  it  under  the  same  impulse,  lifted  it  tenderly  in  his  hands, 
and  bore  it  to  Miss  Larkin,  who  took  it  in  her  lap,  covered  it, 
and  poured  out  upon  it  a  flood  of  pitying  and  caressing  words. 
It  is  curious  how  superstition  springs  into  life  at  sea.  Of  all 
the  monsters  that  swim  the  deep  or  haunt  the  land,  there  is 
none  so  powerful  as  this,  and  none  like  this  that  is  omnipresent. 
It  can  be  fought  or  ignored  upon  the  shore,  but  at  sea  it  looks 


70  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

up  from  the  green  hollows  of  the  waves,  and  lifts  its  ghostlj 
hands  from  every  white  curl  of  their  swiftly  formed  and  swiftlj 
falling  summits.  It  is  in  the  still  atmosphere,  in  the  howling 
wind,  in  the  awful  fires  and  silences  of  the  stars,  in  the  low 
clouds  and  the  lightnings  that  shiver  and  try  to  hide  themselves 
behind  them.  Reason  retires  before  its  baleful  breath,  and 
even  faith  grows  fearful  beneath  its  influence.  It  fills  the  imagi- 
nation with  a  thousand  indefinite  forms  of  evil,  and  none  are  so 
strong  as  to  be  unconscious  of  its  power. 

Here  were  two  steamers  and  two  birds  !  One  bird  had  sunk 
in  the  sea,  the  other  was  saved.  The  same  thought  flashed 
through  a  dozen  minds  at  once,  but  no  mind  was  quicker  to 
seize  the  superstitious  alarm  than  that  of  Mr.  Benson.  He 
cursed  the  bird  in  his  thought.  He  was  tempted  to  curse  him- 
self for  having  repulsed  it.  It  was  a  bad  omen.  He  felt,  too, 
that  the  deed  was  unlike  him — that  he  had  compromised  his 
character  for  kindness  and  steadiness  of  nerve  with  the  passen- 
gers. He  felt  this  so  deeply  that  he  apologized  for  it,  on  the 
ground  of  sudden  fright,  and  went  over  to  Miss  Larkin  and  in- 
quired kindly  for  the  welfare  of  the  little  creature.  He  fought 
with  his  own  unreasonable  alarm.  He  put  his  strong  will 
under  his  sinking  heart  and  tried  to  lift  it.  He  walked  the 
deck,  and  threw  his  coat  open  to  the  cool  wind,  as  if  that  might 
have  the  power  to  waft  away  the  feeling  that  oppressed  him ; 
but  the  haunting  shadow  would  not  leave  him. 

His  feeling  was  shared,  in  a  degree,  by  the  other  passengers, 
and  all  mentally  looked  at  him  askance.  He  had  been  the 
author  of  the  mischief,  whatever  it  was.  Was  he  a  Jonah? 
Would  the  elements  take  revenge  upon  him  for  his  cruelty? 
Were  they  to  suffer  for  it,  because  caught  in  his  company  ? 

From  that  moment  the  strange  steamer  became  more  an 
object  of  interest  than  before.  Somehow  she  had  united  her- 
self to  their  fate.  That  which  had  seemed  a  pleasant  compan- 
ionship was  changed  to  a  haunting  specter.  The  constant 
vision,  the  gradual  approach,  the  even,  unvarying  progress, 
oppressed  them  all  like  a  nightmare.  They  wished  that  she 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  71 

would  run  away  from  them  or  fall  behind.     The  lively  prome- 
nading was  stopped.     The  singing  in  the  cabin  was  still.     All 
amusements   were  set  aside,  as  if  by  silent,  common   consent. 
There  were  no  more   groups  engaged   in   lively   conversation 
but  all  day  long  men  and  women  stood  alone  at  the  rail  watch 
ing  the  companion  vessel,  that  seemed  less  like  a  ship  than  the 
shadow  of  their  own,  only  the  shadow  was  shrunk  in  size  and 
hung  off  in  distance,  as  if  afraid  of  the  form  of  which  it  was 
born. 

Mr.  Benson  retired  into  himself,  and  hardly  spoke  to  any 
one  during  the  day.  It  was  reported  among  the  passengers 
that  the  captain  had  said  that  he  had  never  known  such  an 
instance  of  even  sailing  in  an  experience  of  thirty  years ;  and 
this  was  fuel  to  the  general  superstitious  feeling. 

The  bird,  however,  thrived.  After  a  period  of  rest,  it  fed 
greedily  from  Miss  Larkin's  hand,  and  then  tried  to  get  away. 
It  was  restrained  for  a  while,  but  at  last  it  grew  so  uneasy  that 
she  released  it.  Contrary  to  the  general  expectation  it  did 
not  leave  the  ship,  but  flew  up  into  the  rigging,  where  it  sat 
looking  out  in  the  direction  in  which  the  steamer  was  sailing, 
or  preening  its  feathers,  or  casting  its  little  pink  eyes  down 
upon  passengers  and  crew. 

The  long  day  wore  away,  and  still  the  bird  remained  upon 
its  perch,  and  still  the  steamer  hung  upon  the  horizon,  looking 
larger  than  before.  As  the  passengers,  one  after  another,  left 
the  deck  for  their  state-rooms,  they  went  down  with  heavy 
hearts,  dreaming  of  collisions,  and  wrecks,  and  strange  birds, 
and  filled  with  fears  that  they  did  not  undertake  to  define. 
But  the  night  passed  away  without  disturbance,  and  when  they 
went  upon  the  deck  the  next  morning,  it  was  to  find  the 
steamer  nearer  to  them  than  on  the  previous  night.  It  was  a 
wonder  of  wonders ;  and  there  was  the  bird  still  in  the  rigging  ! 
Why  did  riot  the  bird  fly  away  ? 

But  the  bird  did  not  fly  away.  He  found  himself  safe,  and 
he  was  refreshing  himself  after  his  long  flight,  with  rest.  Food 
was  elevated  to  him,  and  he  ate,  much  to  the  delight  of  every 


7«  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

body.  Toward  night,  however,  it  was  seen  that  he  was  be- 
coming uneasy.  He  flew  from  perch  to  perch,  and  finally 
took  up  his  position  upon  the  top  of  the  foremast.  Here  he 
rested  for  a  few  minutes,  in  a  fixed  lookout,  and  then  spread 
his  wings  and  flew  away  from  the  vessel,  easily  outstripping 
her  in  her  own  appointed  track.  As  all  eyes  followed  the  re- 
treating form,  they  saw  in  the  distance,  hull  down,  a  full-rigged 
ship.  The  wind  was  on  her  quarter,  all  sails  were  set,  and 
as  she  gradually  rose,  it  was  perceived  that  she  was  coming 
straight  toward  the  steamer.  The  combined  speed  of  the  two 
Vessels  would  bring  them  to  a  quick  meeting  and  a  quick  part- 
ing. The  bird  had  evidently  seen  the  vessel,  and,  by  its  own 
instincts,  had  determined  that  she  would  be  its  guide  to  the  land 
that  it  had  so  hopelessly  left  behind. 

Mr.  Benson  was  nervous.  He  looked  behind  him,  and  saw 
the  ocean  all  aflame  with  the  reflection  of  the  reddest  sun  he 
had  ever  beheld.  How  could  a  pilot  see  in  the  face  of  such  a 
fire  ?  he  questioned.  He  thought  of  the  hundred  stories  he 
had  read  of  mysterious  wrecks  from  more  mysterious  blunders, 
and  felt  that  he  should  be  relieved  when  that  vessel  were  once 
left  behind. 

The  strange  steamer  was  at  once  forgotten  in  the  presence 
of  a  more  immediate  object  of  interest.  Some  of  the  gentle- 
men left  their  positions  on  the  after-deck,  and  went  forward,  in 
order  to  rid  themselves  of  the  obstacles  to  close  and  constant 
vision  which  the  upper-works  of  the  steamer  interposed.  All 
watched  her  with  a  strange,  silent  interest,  as  her  great  black 
hull  was  lifted  more  and  more  into  view,  and  her  magnificent 
spread  of  canvas  grew  rosy  in  the  rays  of  the  descending  sun. 
It  was  not  until  the  sun  hung  but  a  few  minutes  above  his 
setting  that  her  bow  showed  itself  plainly,  parting  the  waves 
before  it  as  if  her  bowsprit  were  a  wand  of  enchantment. 

She  was  a  beautiful  vision,  and  many  were  the  exclamations 
of  admiration  that  went  up  among  the  passengers,  but  all  had 
a  secret  feeling  that  her  course  was  too  directly  in  the  path 
of  the  steamer,  and  watched  her,  momentarily  expecting  her 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  73 

to  change  her  course.  The  steamer  blew  a  warning  signal. 
Whether  it  was  wrongly  given,  or  misunderstood,  nobody,  in 
the  absorbing  excitement  of  the  moment,  could  understand  or 
remember ;  but  both  vessels  turned  in  the  same  direction,  and 
both  were  under  a  full  spread  of  canvas.  Collision  seemed 
imminent.  Every  excited  witness  held  his  breath,  and  steeled 
his  nerves  to  meet  the  impending  consequences  of  the  blunder. 
The  steamer  blew  another  warning  signal.  A  terrible,  insane 
confusion  seemed  to  have  seized  the  minds  of  those  in  control, 
for  both  vessels  were  again  turned  in  the  same  direction.  Then 
the  steam  was  shut  off,  and  for  a  moment  that  awful  silence 
came  which  wakes  the  soundest  sleeper  at  sea,  when,  after  days 
of  ceaseless  crash  and  jar,  and  forward  push  and  plunge, 
the  great  fiery  heart  of  the  steamer  stands  still.  Then  the 
screw  was  reversed,  and  slowly,  at  last,  the  huge  hulk  yielded 
to  the  new  motion,  but  it  was  too  late.  A  few  seconds  passed, 
during  which  three  hundred  aching  hearts  stood  still,  and  then 
there  came  a  crash  so  deafening,  deadening,  awful,  that  many 
swooned,  and  yells  and  screams  and  curses  and  prayers  were 
mingled  in  a  wild  confusion  that  neither  words  can  portray  nor 
imagination  conceive.  The  steamer  was  struck  diagonally  upon 
her  bows.  If  she  had  been  a  living  thing,  and  the  ship  had 
been  a  missile  hurled  at  her,  she  might  be  spoken  of  as  having 
received  a  wound  in  her  breast. 

The  backward  motion  of  the  steamer  and  the  recoil  of  both 
vessels  from  the  cruel  blow,  dragged  them  apart,  amid  the 
crash  of  falling  spars  and  the  snapping  of  strained  and  tangled 
cordage ;  and  then  the  ship,  with  the  most  of  her  sails  still 
spread  to  the  breeze,  raked  the  steamer  from  stem  to  stern, 
and  passed  on.  As  she  went  by  the  little  crowd  of  pale-faced, 
trembling  men  and  women,  grouped  upon  the  after-deck,  a 
dozen  eyes  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  well-known  bird,  flying  in 
the  face  of  the  ship's  pilot,  as  if  protesting  against  his  careless- 
ness, or  as  if  it  had  foreseen  the  danger  of  the  accident,  and 
had  left  the  steamer  to  avert  it. 

There  was  running  to  and  fro,  shouting,  praying,  confusion 
4 


74  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

everywhere  on  board  the  steamer.  Steerage  passengers  came 
out  of  their  hiding-places,  and  many  of  them  were  with  difficult) 
restrained  from  throwing  themselves  into  the  sea.  Stokers — be- 
grimed, besooted,  bathed  in  perspiration — climbed  from  their 
Plutonian  depths,  with  ghastly  eyes,  like  so  many  walking 
Deaths,  and  wildly  gazed  around  them.  The  captain,  smitten 
with  confusion  at  first,  was  the  first  to  gain  self-control.  His 
voice  was  heard  above  the  din,  and  men  tried  to  be  calm,  and 
to  fasten  their  hopes  upon  him.  He  sent  the  carpenter  and 
some  of  the  officers  below  to  examine  into  the  nature  and  ex- 
tent of  the  damage.  A  long,  impatient,  murmuring  silence 
followed,  and  then  the  men  returned.  It  was  not  needful  to 
ask  what  they  had  found.  It  was  imprinted  upon  their  faces, 
which  seemed  to  have  grown  old  and  withered  while  they  were 
gone. 

Command  was  at  once  given  to  lower  the  boats  from  their 
davits.  Then  apprehension  gave  place  to  certainty,  and  all 
was  confusion  again,  though,  here  and  there,  there  were  men  and 
women  who  rose  from  their  fear  into  a  calmness,  such  as  only 
comes  to  some  in  the  presence  of  death. 

It  was  Mr.  Benson's  trial  hour.  He  was  then  to  show 
exactly  what  he  was  worth.  Thus  far,  his  life  had  flowed  on 
calmly  and  unperturbed.  Armored  all  over  with  the  pride  of 
integrity,  of  self-sufficiency  and  self-control,  he  and  all  those 
who  knew  him  were  to  learn  whether  his  armor,  like  that  of  the 
steamer,  was  to  be  broken  through,  and  he  left  to  sink  or  float 
a  hopeless  wreck  on  the  ocean  of  life.  He  realized  this  in  such 
a  degree  as  was  possible  to  him  under  the  circumstances ;  but 
even  here  his  mind  went  to  work  automatically,  as  it  were,  to 
construct  his  duties.  He  owed  his  first  duties  to  himself  and 
the  great  armj  dependent  upon  him  at  home.  It  was  for  him 
to  save  his  life.  He  could  not  forget  Miss  Larkin,  however, 
if  he  would.  There  she  sat  in  her  helplessness — pale, 
anxious,  looking  at  him  with  a  mute  appeal,  but  breathing  not 
a  word. 

Mr  Benson's  face  was  like  that  of  a  dead  man.     He  started 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  75 

to  go  to  Miss  Larkin.  Then  he  paused.  Then  he  went  ovei 
and  wrung  her  hand. 

"  Poor  child  ! "  he  said ;  but  he  did  not  say  "  I  will  try  to 
save  you." 

He  was  watching  the  boats,  as  they  were  lowering  to  the 
water,  and  the  frenzied  crowd  that  were  trying  to  get  into  them. 
Then,  as  if  seized  with  a  frantic  impulse  to  save  himself,  he 
darted  from  her  side,  rushed  into  the  thick  of  the  struggling 
crowd,  parted  a  way  for  himself  with  muscles  that  seemed 
hardened  into  iron,  and,  as  the  first  boat  touched  the  water, 
precipitated  himself  among  the  struggling,  cursing  men,  who, 
wild  like  himself,  had  forgotten  all  the  helplessness  they  had  left 
behind  them.  The  disgraceful  flight  and  plunge  had  been 
effected  within  sight  of  Miss  Larkin. 

"  Dear  God  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  How  I  pity  that  poor 
man ! " 

When  Mr.  Benson  had  righted  himself,  after  his  dangerous 
leap,  and  before  the  boat  was  entirely  clear  of  the  steamer,  he 
came  to  himself,  but  it  was  too  late.  He  looked  up  and  saw 
Miss  Larkin.  From  that  moment  of  ineffable  anguish  and 
humiliation  the  Mr.  Benson  whom  he  had  known  and  believed 
in,  had  honored  and  been  proud  of,  was  dead.  He  had  lost 
himself.  His  long  self-circumspection,  his  careful  preservation 
of  his  integrity,  his  unconscious  nursing  of  self-love,  had  culmi- 
nated in  a  sudden,  stunning  act  of  dastardy. 

He  saw,  in  one  swift  moment,  as  in  a  vision  of  God,  Mr. 
Benjamin  Benson  as  a  loathsome,  painted  sepulcher.  Swift 
into  that  foul  inclosure,  swarmed  a  thousand  fiendish  forms, 
against  which  he  fought,  until  he  ground  his  teeth  and  groaned 
in  anguish.  What  if  he  should  be  saved  ?  What  if  Miss  Larkin 
should  die  ?  How  could  he  manage  to  get  the  most  out  of  her 
estate  for  himself?  These  thoughts  were  interjected  between 
those  which  related  to  his  own  safety  as  if  they  had  been  darts 
fired  at  him  from  the  damned.  He  could  not  quench  or  repel 
them.  Wild,  staring  men  were  around  him,  struggling  in  the 
water.  The  impulse  came  to  cast  himself  among  them,  and 


76  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

share  their  impending  fate,  in  the  hope  to  hide  himself  from 
himself,  in  the  depths  that  could  so  quickly  quench  his  life  ;  but 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  was  too  strong  for  the  impulse, 
and  held  him  to  his  seat.  He  tried  to  believe  that  he  had  done 
his  duty,  but  he  was  unsatisfied.  The  devil  furnished  him  with 
a  thousand  apologies,  that  limped  into  his  mind,  and  limped 
out  again,  as  if  ashamed  of  themselves,  or  disgusted  with  the 
place  into  which  they  had  been  sent. 

He  did  not  look  at  Miss  Larkin  again.  The  shame,  the  hu- 
miliation, the  sense  of  immitigable  disgrace,  the  discovery  of 
his  own  hollowness,  selfishness  and  cowardice,  the  realization 
of  his  loss  of  the  estate  of  manhood,  held  down  his  head  as  if  it 
had  been  transmuted  into  lead. 

But  strong  men  were  at  the  oars,  and,  helped  by  the  wind, 
the  boat  rounded  the  sinking  prow  of  the  steamer  and  disap- 
peared from  Miss  Larkin' s  sight.  She  caught  one  glimpse  of 
his  white,  despairing  face,  saw  him  wringing  his  impotent  hands, 
and  in  her  heart  bade  him  an  eternal  farewell.  She  saw  it  all 
without  a  throb  of  resentment.  She  had  read,  through  her  in- 
stincts, what  the  wise  and  experienced  world  had  never  been 
able  to  see — what  Mr.  Benson  himself  had  never  seen  until  this 
moment — and  she  was  not  disappointed. 

The  boats  were  quite  incompetent  to  hold  all  the  life  upon 
the  steamer,  and  one  was  swamped  in  getting  off.  The  excite- 
ment attending  their  launching  was  uncontrollable,  and  help- 
lessness had  no  chance  within  its  circle.  Meantime,  the  captain, 
notwithstanding  his  inability  to  quell  the  frenzy  that  reigned 
around  him,  had  not  only  regained  but  kept  his  head.  He  had 
fired  signals  of  distress.  As  the  sun  went  down,  he  let  off 
rockets  that  called  for  help.  He  had  watched  the  ship  that  col- 
lided with  the  steamer,  and  seen  her  rounding  to,  in  the  crimson 
track  of  the  dying  daylight,  with  the  purpose  of  offering  assist- 
ance. The  companion  steamer  that  had  excited  so  many 
superstitious  fears,  had  changed  her  course  and  was  making 
for  the  wreck.  All  looked  hopeful,  and  he  went  around, 
cheering  the  passengers  with  the  intelligence.  If  the  steamei 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  77 

would  only  keep  afloat  for  half  an  hour,  all  would  be  saved. 
Courage  sprang  up  on  every  hand.  The  boat  in  which  Mr. 
Benson  had  embarked  was  seen  going  with  the  wind  toward 
the  approaching  steamer,  and  its  inmates  would  doubtless  be 
picked  up. 

Nicholas  was  on  the  alert,  and  saw  that  the  wreck  was  sink- 
ing  forward.  He  was  hopeful  and  cheerful,  and  found,  in  the 
pale  and  frightened  group  around  him,  his  lady  acquaintances. 
He  provided  them  all  with  life-preservers,  gave  them  such  di- 
rections as  he  could,  in  preparation  for  the  anticipated  emer- 
gency, cheered  them  with  brave  words,  and  behaved,  much  to 
his  own  surprise,  like  a  courageous  and  self-poised  man. 

Mrs.  Coates  went  over  to  him,  as  he  knelt  by  Miss  Larkin's 
side,  and,  with  lips  livid  and  trembling,  said  : 

"  Mr.  Minturn,  save  Jenny.     Don't  mind  me." 

"  Bless  you,  my  good  woman,  for  that !  If  I  live,  I  shall 
always  remember  it.  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  save  you  both." 

The  women  around  were  tearfully  shaking  hands  with  one 
another,  or  embracing  each  other  silently. 

Nicholas  turned  to  Miss  Larkin,  whom  he  would  not  leave, 
•and  said  : 

"  Miss  Larkin,  can  you  die  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  God  wills." 

"  Can  you  die,  Miss  Bruce  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  I  must." 

"  So  can  I,  and  by  these  tokens  we  shall  all  live.  The  calm- 
ness that  comes  of  resignation  will  help  us  to  save  ourselves, 
and  I  believe  we  shall  have  need  of  it." 

At  that  moment  the  incoming  water  found  the  fires  of  the 
steamer,  and  a  great  volume  of  hot  vapor  shot  up  through 
every  opening  and  enveloped  the  ship.  Men  rushed  aft,  as 
they  saw  the  bow  hopelessly  settling,  until  the  deck  was  covered 
with  a  motley  crowd  of  steerage  passengers,  engineers,  stokers, 
and  sailors.  Among  them  came  the  captain. 

People  seized  upon  chairs,  settees,  everything  that  would 
float.  Some  brought  doors  with  them,  that  they  had  wrenched 


78  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

from  their  hinges.  One  wild  man,  black  with  the  dust 
among  which  he  had  spent  the  voyage,  found  nothing  on  which 
to  lay  his  hand  for  safety,  and  advancing  to  Miss  Larkin, 
sought  to  wrench  the  chair  from  under  her.  Nicholas  felled 
him  to  the  deck  by  an  impulsive  blow.  The  wretch  picked 
himself  up,  apparently  unconscious  of  what  had  stunned  him. 

The  scenes  that  accompanied  the  few  which  have  beer, 
depicted  were  too  painful  and  too  confused  for  description. 
The  struggle  of  helpless  lives  in  the  water ;  t^e  men  and 
women  who  stood  apart,  stunned  by  the  imminent  calamity, 
and  prayed  ;  the  swooning  forms  that  lay  around  upon  the 
hard  planks  of  the  deck ;  the  fierce  eyes  that  tried  for  the  first 
time  to  look  death  in  the  face ;  the  selfish,  brutal  struggles  for 
the  means  of  safety ;  the  tender  farewells,  given  and  received, 
formed  a  scene  to  linger  forever  as  a  burden  of  distress  in  the 
memory,  but  one  which  the  pen  is  impotent  to  portray. 

Nicholas  looked  up  and  saw  the  captain. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  said  the  latter,  "  you  are  all  right.  I 
am  going  down  near  you,  and  we'll  do  what  we  can  to  save 
these  women." 

There  was  something  very  hearty  and  reassuring  in  his  tone ; 
and  the  ladies  gathered  around  the  pair.  The  Captain  saw 
plainly  that  help  could  not  reach  them  before  the  final  catas- 
trophe, which  seemed  to  be  rapidly  approaching. 

To  those  who  have  spent  many  and  happy  days  upon  a 
steamer,  she  becomes,  or  seems,  a  living  and  sentient  thing. 
Her  steadily  beating  heart,  her  tireless  arms,  her  ceaseless 
motion,  her  power  to  buffet  the  waves,  her  loyal  obedience  to 
orders,  form  so  many  analogies  to  life  that  the  imagination 
readily  crowns  her  with  consciousness,  and  endows  her  with 
feeling.  To  those  who  watched  the  "Ariadne,"  as  her  bows 
settled  hopelessly  in  the  water,  she  seemed  reluctant  to  leave 
the  light  of  the  stars,  and  take  up  her  abode  in  the  awful  pro- 
found whose  depths  awaited  her.  In  the  sore  pity  of  them- 
selves was  mingled  a  strange  pity  for  her.  No  power  was 
strong  enough  to  save  her,  and  they  might  be  saved.  It  was 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  79 

like  parting  with  a  friend  who  had  sheltered,  fed  and  served 
them. 

She  paused  for  a  minute  as  if  holding  her  breath  ;  then  as 
if  her  breath  were  all  expired  in  a  moment,  and  hope  had  taken 
its  flight,  she  went  down,  amid  shrieks  and  prayers  and  wild  be- 
wailings,  that  at  one  moment  were  at  their  highest,  and  at  the 
next  were  as  still  as  if  every  mouth  had  been  struck  by  a  com- 
mon blow.  In  the  sudden  immersion  in  the  cold  element, 
many  a  heart  ceased  to  beat  forever,  and  many  a  life  went  out. 
Those  who  retained  their  consciousness  felt  themselves  going 
down,  down,  among  eddies  that  twisted  their  limbs,  wrenched 
their  bodies,  tossed  them  against  each  other,  bruising  and  be- 
numbing them,  until  all  was  still,  and  they  felt  themselves 
rising,  with  a  delicious  sense  of  buoyancy  and  triumph. 

They  emerged,  some  of  them  wholly  conscious,  some  half 
conscious,  some  unconscious,  and  without  reason,  but  answer- 
ing efficiently  to  the  dictates  of  a  blind  instinct  of  self-preser- 
vation, each  to  appropriate  the  help  of  such  pieces  of  drift  as 
were  within  reach.  The  first  voices  heard  were  those  of  the 
captain  and  Nicholas,  cheering  the  weak  and  struggling  men 
and  women  around  them.  The  first  effect  of  the  immersion 
soon  wore  away,  and,  under  the  awful  stimulus  of  the  moment, 
thought  was  active  and  expedient  almost  miraculous. 

Miss  Larkin  had  gone  down  just  as  she  sat.  Without  con- 
cert or  calculation,  Nicholas  and  Miss  Bruce  had  gone  down 
on  either  side  of  her,  and  her  chair,  lighter  than  herself,  had 
remained  under  her  and  buoyed  her  throughout  the  awful 
descent  and  the  long  passage  to  the  surface.  Nicholas  found 
himself,  on  rising,  with  one  hand  grasping  her  chair,  and  the 
other  her  arm.  The  young  woman  and  her  companion  were 
both  alive,  and  could  speak. 

A  huge  piece  of  drift  came  near  Nicholas  and  he  seized  it. 
It  was  not  only  large  enough  for  the  three,  it  was  large 
enough  for  a  dozen.  When  the  two  immediately  under  his 
care  had  secured  firm  hold  upon  it,  he  and  the  captain  gathered 
others  to  it.  Nicholas  was  not  a  swimmer,  but  he  swam, 


8o  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

The  emergency  developed  both  power  and  skill.  He  had  th« 
unspeakable  satisfaction  of  gathering  to  his  buoy  several  of  the 
ladies  whom  he  knew.  The  action  wearied  him  ;  but  his  long 
unused  vitality  stood  him  in  good  stead.  He  had  resources 
that  laboring  men  never  possess  in  such  emergencies.  He 
assured  them  that  the  boats  of  the  rescuers  were  close  at  hand, 
and  all  they  needed  for  safety  was  to  keep  their  heads  above 
water.  All  grew  wise  and  calm  with  every  passing  moment ; 
and,  in  the  common  calamity,  brave  and  mutually  helpful.  The 
selfish  greed  for  safety  disappeared.  Twenty  minutes — it 
seemed  an  age — passed,  and  then,  while  Nicholas  and  his 
group  were  deep  down  in  the  hollow  of  a  wave,  a  boat  appeared 
upon  its  crest  above  them. 

Oh  !  the  fierce  shout  that  rose,  and  the  answering  cheer  ! 

Soon  the  boat  was  near  them,  and  strong  arms  were  ready. 
It  was  difficult  to  lift  in  the  poor  women,  amid  the  rise  and  fall 
of  the  waves,  without  bruises  ;  but  one  after  another  was  care- 
fully raised  from  her  hold  and  placed  in  the  boat,  where  they 
swooned  or  cowered  together  for  warmth.  Soon  another  boat 
appeared,  and  another,  and  another.  Torches  were  flaming 
here  and  there.  Re-assuring  shouts  went  up  on  every  hand. 
Both  the  steamer  and  the  ship  were  represented  among  the 
rescuers,  and  not  a  single  life  that  could  hold  itself  above  the 
surface  was  suffered  to  go  down. 

The  captain  was  lifted  into  one  of  the  steamer's  boats,  while 
Nicholas,  and  those  immediately  around  him,  were  rescued  by 
one  of  the  boats  from  the  ship.  They  went  different  ways,  and 
were  parted  forever. 

During  the  absence  of  the  boats  from  the  ship,  she  had 
drifted  nearer  to  them,  and  sent  up  signals  and  hung  out  lights 
to  guide  the  weary  boatmen  back  to  their  vessel.  The 
steamer's  boats  had  the  wind  with  them,  and  as  she,  too,  had 
crept  nearer,  their  shivering,  half  drowned  freight  of  men  and 
women  had  but  a  short  passage  from  their  benumbing  bath  to 
the  light  and  warmth  of  the  cabin,  and  the  ministry  of  tender  and 
efficient  hands.  The  steamer  was  at  once  transformed  into  a  hos- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  81 

pital,  in  which  extemporized  physicians  and  volunteer  nurses 
spent  the  night  in  the  long  and  tedious  work  of  resuscitation. 

Among  those  who  stood  upon  her  deck,  as  one  after  another 
the  boats  came  in,  and  the  victims  of  the  great  catastrophe 
were  lifted  through  the  gangway,  was  Mr.  Benson.  He  watched 
with  awful  interest  every  face  and  form ;  and  when  the  last 
boat-load  was  discharged,  he  turned  away  with  a  pitiful  groan, 
and  laid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  wept  like  a  child.  He  had 
hoped  she  would  come.  He  had  hoped  that  she  would  help 
to  save  him  from  himself.  Do  what  he  would,  however,  his 
pecuniary  interest  in  her  constantly  obtruded  itself.  He  tried 
to  get  away  from  it  and  shut  it  out ;  but  it  would  not  leave  him. 
After  learning  that  the  boats  of  the  ship  had  rescued  quite  a 
number  of  the  passengers,  he  wondered  if  Nicholas  had  saved 
her.  If  he  had  done  so,  and  also  saved  himself,  what  would  be 
the  result  ?  Then  he  found  a  curious  enmity  in  his  heart  spring- 
ing up  against  Nicholas.  All  the  forces,  plans,  purposes,  prides 
of  his  life,  were  in  wild  confusion.  Like  a  great  god  in  marble, 
he  saw  the  deity  he  had  made  of  himself  tumbled  from  its  ped- 
estal, and  broken  into  a  thousand  fragments. 

He  would  forget.  He  would  win  back  his  self-respect.  In 
deeds  of  mercy,  in  acts  of  service,  he  would  spend  his  life  to 
atone  for  the  past.  Impulsively  he  sought  the  cabin,  and  there, 
with  strong  arms  and  tireless  hands,  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
sufferers.  When  others  slept,  he  watched.  When  others  were 
weary,  he  supplemented  their  feeble  efforts  with  his  own  fren- 
zied strength. 

The  steamer  only  paused  to  start  her  boats  toward  their 
davits,  then  the  engineer's  bell  rang,  the  sails  were  hoisted,  and 
the  great  creature  went  booming  across  the  waves  into  the 
night,  to  complete  her  five  hundred  leagues  before  she  should 
again  stand  still. 

Nicholas  and  his  party  were  lifted  on  board  the  ship,  more 
dead  than  alive.     They  found  rougher  hands  to  tend  them, 
among  the  emigrants  that  thronged  her  decks,  but  they  were 
4* 


8s  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

moved  by  hearts  as  warm  as  those  that  throbbed  under  finer 
vestures  in  the  cabin  of  the  steamer.  Though  chilled  and 
bruised,  not  one  of  all  the  rescued  number  failed  to  respond  to 
the  means  of  recovery. 

A  few  pieces  of  drift,  scattering  every  moment,  and  lifting 
themselves  upon  the  waves  that  swept  the  great  solitude,  were 
all  that  was  left  of  the  huge  organism  that  so  lately  carved  her 
way  across  the  all-embracing  element.  She  went  down  with 
all  her  cunning  machinery,  her  gigantic  power,  her  burden  of 
wealth,  to  sleep  a  mile  below  the  waves,  and  wait  until  some 
convulsion  of  reforming  or  dying  nature  shall  lift  her  from  her 
bed, — but  not  a  soul  was  lost ! 

Not  a  soul  was  lost.  There  must  be  somewhere,  some  One, 
who  looks  upon  what  we  call  calamity  with  a  different  eye  from 
ours.  The  life  beyond  must  be  so  much  brighter  than  this  that 
those  who  suffer  death  find  payment  for  all  their  pain,  and  ter- 
ror is  forgotten  in  an  overwhelming  joy.  Many  went  down  and 
their  bodies  never  rose  ;  but  something  rose.  No  one  saw  the 
meetings  in  the  air.  No  one  witnessed  the  transition  from  pain 
to  pleasure,  from  slavery  to  freedom,  from  darkness  to  light ; 
bat  he  whose  faith  clings  to  the  risen  Master  believes  that  be- 
cause He  lives,  all  these  live  also. 

No  pity  for  these,  but  pity  for  him  who  found  in  his  selfish 
and  cowardly  experience  a  terrific  meaning  in  the  familiar  text  : 
"  He  that  saveth  his  life  shall  lose  it  1 " 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHICH    TELLS    OF   THE     JOURNEY    HOMEWARD,    DURING   WHICH 

THERE    IS    A   SOCIAL   STORM   THAT   MRS.  COATES  ALLAYS 

BY  POURING  "  ILE  "  ON  THE  TROUBLED  WATERS. 

NICHOLAS  and  those  who  had  been  rescued  with  him  learned, 
on  the  next  morning  after  the  disaster,  that  they  were  on  board 
the  ship  "  Jungfrau,"  from  Bremen,  bound  for  New  York,  with 
half  a  dozen  cabin  passengers  and  a  large  number  of  emigrants. 
The  vessel  was  crowded,  but  everything  was  done  that  a  sym- 
thetic  and  helpful  benevolence  could  devise  to  restore  them 
from  their  nervous  shock  and  their  harsh  exposure,  and  to  make 
them  comfortable.  Nicholas  and  a  few  of  the  ladies  found 
themselves  suffering  only  from  mental  distress  and  bodily  lame- 
ness, while  others,  among  them  Miss  Larkin,  rallied  less  readily, 
and  were  held  to  their  berths  by  a  low  fever  whose  awful  de- 
pressions, waking  and  sleeping,  were  haunted  by  dreams  that 
made  their  lives  a  perpetual  torture. 

The  captain  of  the  "  Jungfrau  "  found  his  vessel  as  sound  in 
the  hull,  after  her  terrible  collision,  as  she  was  before,  and 
enough  of  her  spars  left  standing  and  uninjured  to  insure  a  safe, 
if  not  a  speedy  passage  into  port.  This  information  he  was 
careful  to  impart  to  his  new  passengers,  in  such  English  as  he 
could  command.  Those  among  them  who  had  lost  friends  held 
to  the  hope  that  they  should  find  them  again  among  those  who 
had  been  rescued  by  the  boats  of  the  two  steamers ;  and  it  was 
curious  to  witness  the  reactions  toward  joyfulness  and  hope 
fulness  which  took  place  among  them.  In  the  midst  of  their 
fears  and  forebodings,  there  was  many  a  merry  laugh  over  the 
strange  disguises  with  which  their  humble,  borrowed  clothing 
invested  them.  Mrs.  McGregor,  who  went  down  with  her  dia- 


84  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

mond  knobs  in  her  ears,  found  those  brilliants  flashing  above  a 
rough  emigrant's  cloak,  and  laughed  with  the  rest  over  the 
grotesque  figure  which  she  presented.  A  strange  feeling  of 
sisterly  regard  which,  in  some  instances,  rose  into  fondness, 
was  developed  among  women  who  had  hitherto  looked  upon 
each  other  with  jealousy.  A  common  calamity,  a  partnership 
in  trial,  brought  proud  hearts  together  in  marvelous  sympathy. 
A  few  minutes  spent  together  in  the  presence  of  death  wove 
bonds  which  only  death  could  break. 

It  was  curious,  too,  to  witness  the  disposition  of  every  woman 
of  the  rescued  number  to  attribute  her  safety  to  Nicholas. 
The  young,  particularly,  had  all  been  saved  by  him — a  fact 
which  they  laid  up  in  their  memories,  to  be  recounted  in  future 
life,  and  to  furnish  a  foundation  for  romantic  dreams.  The 
young  man  found  himself,  very  much  to  his  embarrassment,  a 
hero — idolized,  courted,  petted,  praised,  thanked  and  over- 
whelmed with  feminine  devotion.  They  talked  about  him 
among  themselves.  They  poured  their  acknowledgments  into 
his  impatient  ear.  They  harassed  and  humiliated  him  with 
their  gratitude.  There  were  only  two  of  the  whole  number  who 
did  not  distress  him  with  their  praises,  and  they  were  the  ones, 
of  them  all,  whom  he  most  sincerely  respected. 

Miss  Coates,  with  her  splendid  vitality,  rallied  among  the 
first,  and  became  the  ministering  angel  of  all  the  sufferers  of 
her  sex.  As  Miss  Bruce  was  almost  equally  disabled  with  her 
charge,  Miss  Coates  became  Miss  Larkin's  constant  attendant. 
She  was  with  her  by  day  and  by  night,  or  always  within  call. 
She  kept  up  the  young  woman's  communications  with  Nicholas, 
and  in  this  service,  tenderly  and  earnestly  rendered,  endeav- 
ored to  embody  her  thanks. 

The  weary  days  wore  slowly  away ;  the  convalescents,  one 
after  another,  sat  up  in  the  close  cabin,  or  appeared  upon  the 
deck,  and  one  morning  Miss  Coates  went  to  Nicholas,  and  in- 
vited him  into  the  cabin.  Miss  Larkin  wished  to  see  him.  The 
young  man  went  down  with  a  throbbing  heart,  and  found  Miss 
Larkin  reclining  in  a  chair.  They  took  each  other's  hands 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  85 

without  a  word.  It  was  long  before  either  of  them  could  speak. 
At  length  Miss  Larkin  said  : 

"  I  am  very  glad  for  you.  You  have  done  a  great  deal  of 
good." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it." 

<!  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  of  my  gratitude  for  my  own  safety. 
That  is  of  small  account ;  but  I  am  grateful  that  you  have 
helped  to  save  my  faith  in  human  nature.  I  thought  I  would 
like  to  tell  you  that." 

"  Thank  you.     You  were  surprised  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.     I  believed  in  you." 

"  Thank  you  again.  The  others  have  treated  me  as  if  they 
were  surprised  to  find  that  I  was  a  man." 

"Don't  blame  them,  after  their  surprise  at  finding  other  men 
cowards." 

"  But  it  is  so  humiliating  to  be  flattered  and  fawned  upon  ! " 

"  There  is  at  least  one  woman  who  has  not  flattered  you,  or 
fawned  upon  you  ;  yet  you  have  no  more  hearty  admirer  upon 
the  ship." 

"Miss  Coates?" 

"Yes." 

"  She  is  a  true  woman,  worth  all  the  rest  of  them  put  to- 
gether, old  and  young." 

"  Yes,  and  I  cannot  be  too  grateful  for  being  brought  into  her 
company.  The  life  before  me  all  looks  brighter  in  the  pros- 
pect of  her  friendship.  She  is  so  helpful,  so  cheerful,  so  self- 
forgetful,  so  courageous,  that  I  look  upon  her  with  constant 
admiration.  Her  presence  always  inspires  me." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Nicholas. 

She  looked  questioningly  into  his  face. 

"  Why  do  you  thank  me  ?  " 

Nicholas  smiled  in  her  upturned  eyes,  and  said  : 

"Because  the  unstinted  praise  of  one  young  woman  by 
another  helps  to  save  my  faith  in  human  nature." 

Miss  Larkin  did  not  smile  at  his  answer,  for  her  heart  was 
visited  at  the  moment  by  an  old  pang  that  had  come  upon  her 


86  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

many  times  during  her  recovery.  She  was  thinking  of  Mr, 
Benson,  and  she  sighed  as  if  the  pain  were  more  than  she  could 
bear. 

"  I  know  what  that  sigh  means,"  said  Nicholas,  "  and  where 
it  came  from." 

She  was  startled,  and  said : 

"  Mr.  Benson  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  pity  him,"  she  responded.  "  I'm 
sure  he  is  alive.  If  I  could  only  think  of  him  as  dead,  I  should  be 
strangely  comforted  ;  yet  until  the  accident,  he  was  always  very 
considerate  of  me.  I  know  that  he  is  forever  humiliated,  and 
that  he  can  never  come  into  my  presence  again  without  pain. 
He  has  received  a  lesson  concerning  himself  that  must  demor- 
alize him.  His  pride  is  fatally  wounded.  His  character  is 
overthrown.  I'm  afraid  he  will  hate  me,  and  hate  you  too ; 
for  generosity  is  as  foreign  to  his  nature  and  character  as  love 
<,*r  enthusiasm." 

"Well,  I'm  not  afraid  of  him,  at  least,"  Nicholas  responded  ; 
'  and,  besides,  I  don't  pity  him.  Men  and  women  must  look 
»*pon  such  things  differently.  I  like  to  see  a  conceited  and 
•pretentious  man  taken  down,  and  placed  exactly  where  he 
belongs.  Let  us  hope  that  what  has  happened  will  make  a 
better  man  of  him." 

"  He  will  never  build  up  again.  He  is  too  old ; "  and  Miss 
Larkin  shook  her  head. 

Nicholas  saw  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  him  to  divert 
her  thoughts  from  the  unhappy  channel  into  which  they  had 
fallen,  and  rose  to  bid  her  good-morning,  and  send  Miss  Coates 
to  her.  He  took  her  hand,  which  he  found  to  be  cold,  and, 
apologizing  for  staying  so  long,  hurried  to  the  deck,  where  Miss 
Coates  was  engaged  in  conversation  with  her  mother.  The 
former  rose  and  left  the  deck  at  once,  to  attend  her  friend  in 
the  cabin. 

Since  the  appeal  of  Mrs.  Coates  to  Nicholas  to  save  her 
daughter,  even  at  the  cost  of  her  own  life,  the  vulgar  little 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  87 

woman  had  appeared  to  him  most  worthy  of  his  respect.  He 
greeted  her  cordially,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

Nicholas  had  already  learned  that  Mrs.  Coates  was  a  member 
of  that  somewhat  widely  scattered  sisterhood  that  report  con- 
versations which  have  never  taken  place.  She  was  without  cul- 
ture, and  had  nothing  to  talk  about  but  personalities,  of  which 
she  was  the  center ;  and  she  had  acquired  the  art,  or  the  habit, 
of  attributing  to  others  the  sentiments  and  opinions  which  she 
wished  either  to  controvert  or  approve.  She  was,  in  this  way, 
enabled  to  give  a  dramatic  quality  to  her  conversation,  and  to 
find  suggestions  for  continuing  it  ad  infinitum.  Not  that  she 
intended  to  lie.  For  the  moment,  she  supposed  that  what  she 
reported  had  actually  taken  place.  Nicholas,  however,  had 
learned  to  separate  the  chaff  from  the  wheat,  and  to  detect  the 
lie  whenever  it  was  broached.  He  knew  the  daughter,  at  least, 
well  enough  to  know  that  certain  conversations  which  the 
mother  reported  in  detail  were  pure  fiction.  Otherwise,  he 
would  have  refused  to  listen  to  them. 

But  Mrs.  Coates  was  good-natured,  and  she  adored  her 
daughter.  She  intended,  too,  that  she  should  have  all  the  ad- 
vantages that  the  maternal  ingenuity  could  devise  for  getting  a 
good  position  in  the  world.  Her  teachers  had  taken  care  of 
her  education,  and  she  had  determined  to  look  after  the  rest 
Her  maneuvers,  however,  were  very  clumsy.  She  had  con- 
ceived the  most  "  honorable  intentions  "  in  regard  to  Nicholas  ; 
but  the  poor,  well-meaning  little  woman  was  obliged  to  use  a 
poker  in  the  place  of  the  gilt-handled,  glittering  scimiter, 
wielded  so  deftly  and  delicately  by  the  ladies  around  her.  In- 
sensitive, resting  upon  her  wealth  as  a  sure  foundation,  she 
never  hesitated  for  a  moment,  in  any  society,  to  express  her 
sentiments,  or  to  absorb  the  conversation ;  and  she  never  for- 
got the  one  great  object  of  her  life, — to  push  Jenny. 

As  Nicholas  took  a  seat  beside  her,  she  said  : 

"  Now  this  seems  real  good  !  I've  been  a-talking  to  Jenny 
about  improving  our  examples.  '  Wherever  you  see  a  shining 
example,'  says  I  to  Jenny,  '  seize  upon  it.  Now,  there's  that 


88  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

young  man,  Mr.  Minturn,'  says  I.  '  Who  would  have  thought 
it  was  in  him  ?  But  he  has  given  us  a  shining  example,'  says 
I,  '  and  shining  examples  aint  so  thick  now-days  that  we  can 
afford  to  make  light  of  'em.'  I've  said  the  same  thing  to  Mr. 
Coates,  often  and  often.  'Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  'embrace  all 
your  opportunities  to  watch  shining  examples.  Wherever  you 
can  find  one,  lay  hold  of  it,'  says  I,  '  and  bring  it  home.' 
Perhaps  you've  noticed  that  Jenny  is  an  uncommon  girl,  Mr. 
Minturn  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have,"  replied  Nicholas,  uneasily  stroking  his 
whiskers. 

"  That's  just  what  I  told  her,"  said  Mrs.  Coates.  "  '  He  sees 
your  worth,'  says  I.  '  He's  not  much  of  a  fool,  to  speak  of,' 
says  I.  'He  knows  who  has  had  advantages,  and  who  hasn't 
had  them.  Hold  up  your  head,'  says  I  to  Jenny.  '  Take  your 
example  in  this  case  from  your  mother,  and  not  from  your 
father,'  says  I;  'for  your  father's  head  is  not  a  shining  example, 
unless  it  is  for  baldness,  which  comes  of  his  forever  wearing  his 
hat  against  my  wishes,'  says  I.  I've  said  the  same  thing  to 
Mr.  Coates.  '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  You're  as  good  as  the  best 
of  them.  You've  got  a  good  house  and  a  respectable  wife,  if  I 
do  say  it ;  and  you've  been  able  to  give  the  best  advantages  to 
your  offspring,  and  there's  no  living  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
hold  up  your  head.'  But  Mr.  Coates  he  laughs,  and  says  he 
isn't  good  for  nothing  but  making  money,  and  that  I  may  hold 
up  my  head  till  it  snaps  off  of  my  shoulders  if  I  want  to ;  and 
Jenny  and  he  are  as  much  alike  as  two  peas.  I  get  out  of  all 
patience  with  her." 

Nicholas  bit  his  lip,  to  hide  his  amusement,  and  said : 

"  It  seeuis  to  me  that  you  are  a  little  rough  on  the  young 
lady." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mean  to  be  rough,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  as  if 
the  asperities  of  her  character  were  a  source  of  profound  grief, 
but  were,  nevertheless,  ineffaceaole.  "  I  don't  mean  to  be 
rough  on  my  own  offspring,  but  I'm  ma.le  so  that  I  can't  bear 
to  see  the  opportunities  of  young  girls  slip  by  without  being 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  89 

embraced.  'Here  is  Mr.  Minturn,'  says  I  to  Jenny,  'ap 
parently  attached  to  a  young  woman  afflicted  with  what  isn't  a 
speck  better  than  numb-palsy,  if  it  is  as  good.  I'm  sorry  for 
him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,'  says  I,  '  and  I'm  sorry  for 
her  too ;  but  she's  a  shining  example  of  patience  and  chirkness, 
and  I  want  you  to  take  that  example  and  make  the  most  of  it. 
Wherever  you  see  an  example,"  says  I  to  Jenny,  '  improve  it. 
Let  nothing  be  lost  on  the  way.'  " 

If  Nicholas  had  not  entertained  the  sincerest  respect  for  the 
young  woman,  and  known  how  offensive  this  kind  of  talk  would 
have  been  to  her,  he  would  have  excused  himself  from  further 
conversation,  and  retired  in  disgust;  but  the  clumsy  manager 
amused  him,  and  Miss  Coates  was  out  of  the  way,  and  could 
not  be  pained  by  her  mother's  talk.  So,  as  he  had  nothing 
else  to  do,  he  was  willing  to  hear  more. 

"  I  says  to  Jenny,"  continued  Mrs.  Coates,  after  a  moment 
of  thoughtfulness,  "  '  Jenny,'  says  I,  '  do  you  remember  what 
Mr.  Minturn  said  about  his  mother  ? '  '  Yes,'  says  she,  '  I 
noticed  it.'  'Mark  my  words,  Jenny,'  says  I,  'mark  my 
words:  a  good  son  is  a  good  husband.'  How  often  I've  said 
the  same  thing  to  Mr.  Coates  !  '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  our  off- 
spring are  to  be  husbands  and  wives.  Let  us  give  them  all  the 
advantages  we  can,  and  make  good  children  of  them,  and  then 
they'll  be  good  husbands  and  wives.  I  s'pose  I  try  Jenny  a 
good  deal.  I  wasn't  raised  as  girls  are  no \v-days,  but  she's 
been  an  obedient  child.  Whatever  happens  to  her,  I  shall 
always  remember  that  she's  been  a  healthy  child,  too  ;  and  Mr. 
Coates  and  I  have  often  said  that  if  we  were  thankful  for  any- 
thing, it  is  that  we've  been  able  to  give  good  constitutions  to 
our  offspring.  Whatever  is  laid  to  Jenny's  door,  there's  no 
numb-palsy  about  her." 

Mrs.  Coates  laughed,  as  if  she  thought  she  had  said  a  good 
thing.  Nicholas  laughed  too,  and  then  she  was  sure  of  it. 

"'Yes,'  says  I  to  Jenny,"  Mrs.  Coates  reiterated,  byway 
of  lifting  her  climax,  or  enjoying  it  a  little  longer,  "  'whatever 
is  laid  to  your  door,  numb-palsy  isn't  the  name  for  it'" 


90  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

She  felt  now  that  she  was  making  genuine  progress,  and  went 
on : 

"  Jenny  is  unaccountable  strange  in  some  things.  I  own  up 
that  I  don't  see  into  it.  I've  said  to  her  often  since  that  night, 
you  know," — and  a  painful  shiver  ran  through  her  fat  little 
person, — " '  Jenny,'  says  I,  c  have  you  ever  thanked  Mr. 
Minturn  for  what  he  done  for  you  ?  Let  us  be  grateful  for  all 
our  mercies,'  says  I ;  'for  if  we  forget  'em,  they  may  be  took 
away  from  us.'  All  I  can  do  and  say,  the  only  thing  I  can  get 
out  of  her  is,  '  Mother,'  says  she,  '  I've  thanked  God  on  my 
knees  for  it ;  but  Mr.  Minturn  is  a  sensible  man,  and  he  don't 
want  no  women  purring  around  him.'  " 

"She's  right,"  said  Nicholas. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  responded  Mrs.  Coates,  shaking 
her  head  doubtfully.  "  You  may  think  I'm  a  strange  woman," 
— and  Mrs.  Coates  paused  to  give  Nicholas  a  moment  for  the 
contemplation  of  the  profound  enigma  before  him, — "you  may 
think  I'm  a  strange  woman,  but  /  think  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
numb-palsy  of  the  heart,  and  that  it  may  be  just  as  bad  as 
numb-palsy  of  the  feet.  '  Whatever  is  laid  to  your  door,'  says 
I  to  Jenny,  '  let  it  not  be  said  that  you  have  numb-palsy  of  the 
heart,  for  out  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh,'  says  I ;  '  and 
perhaps  that's  the  reason  you  don't  speak  to  Mr.  Minturn,' 
says  I." 

She  would  have  gone  on  with  her  talk  as  long  as  Nicholas 
would  have  listened  to  it,  for  her  resources  were  unlimited. 
What  she  had  said  to  Mr.  Coates  and  Jenny,  and  what  Mr. 
Coates  and  Jenny  had  said  to  her,  constituted  a  circle  like  that 
defined  by  the  revolving  horses  at  a  country  show.  When  her 
nag  was  in  motion,  those  which  bore  her  husband  and  daughter 
were  in  motion  too ;  and  she  was  always  in  a  chase  after  them, 
and  they  after  her. 

But  the  machine  was  stopped  by  the  approach  of  Mrs. 
Ilmansee  and  her  pretty  sister,  who,  notwithstanding  theii 
losses,  had  managed  to  keep  up  a  fair  appearance  and  a  jauntj 
air. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  91 

"  O  Mr.  Minturn ! "  broke  in  the  young  married  lady,  utterly 
ignoring  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Coates,  "•  I  wanted  to  say  to  you 
that  I  shall  expect  you,  on  landing,  to  go  directly  to  my  house. 
You  will  need  to  stop  in  New  York  awhile  to  replenish  your 
wardrobe,  and  you  are  to  make  my  house  your  home  as  long 
as  you  will.  Mr.  Ilmansee  will  be  delighted  to  see  you,  and  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  thanking  you  for  the  great  service  you 
have  rendered  us  all." 

Mrs.  Coates  was  taken  aback.  In  her  greediness  to  make 
the  most  of  present  opportunities,  and  to  embrace  the  privi- 
leges of  the  moment,  she  had  forgotten  to  offer  her  hospitali- 
ties ;  but  she  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 

"  Share  and  share  alike,"  said  she,  interrupting  Nicholas  in 
his  attempt  to  reply  to  the  invitation.  "  How  many  times  I've 
said  to  Mr.  Coates,  '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  whatever  you  are, 
don't  let  it  be  laid  to  your  door  that  you  are  greedy,  and  take 
advantage  of  your  fellow-men.  Entertain  angels  unawares,' 
says  I,  '  whenever  you  get  a  chance.  Whatever  you  are,  be 
hospitable,'  says  I.  '  You  are  not  required  to  be  extravagant, 
and  spend  so  much  money  on  luxuries  that  you  can't  give  the 
best  advantages  to  your  offspring  ;  but  you  are  required  to  enter- 
tain angels  unawares,  and  furnish  them  the  best  that  the  market 
affords.'  Often  and  often  Jenny  has  said  to  me,  '  Mother,  you 
entertain  more  angels  unawares  than  any  woman  I  know  of, 
and  you  are  wearing  yourself  all  out.'  '  Jenny,'  says  I,  *  I  shall 
keep  on  doing  so  until  I  drop  in  my  tracks,  and  open  the  best 
room  to  them,  too.  Mr.  Minturn  will  stay  with  us  a  part  of  the 
time,  of  course.  Share  and  share  alike  is  a  good  rule,  with  all 
them  as  mean  to  be  fair  and  aboveboard.'  " 

Mrs.  Ilmansee  had  stood  and  heard  this  long  speech  in  ill- 
concealed  disgust.  There  was  no  stopping  it,  and  no  getting 
away  from  it.  Miss  Pelton,  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm, 
pressed  that  arm  a  good  many  times  in  her  amusement,  bit  her 
rosy  lips,  and  appeared  strangely  pleased  with  something  she 
had  discovered  far  off  at  sea.  Poor  Nicholas  blushed,  without 
knowing  what  to  say. 


9»  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Minturn  is  at  liberty  to  take  his  choice," 
said  Mrs.  Ilmansee,  spitefully. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  blandly,  "he  can  go  to  your  house 
first,  and  then  he  can  come  to  mine.  Turn  about  is  fair  play. 
How  often  I've  said  to  Mr.  Coates, '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  stand 
by  your  own  rights,  but  don't  never  let  it  be  laid  to  your  dooi 
that  you  deny  the  rights  of  others,  for  they  have  their  feelings 
as  well  as  you,'  says  I." 

"  Moving  about  from  house  to  house  is  such  a  pleasant  ex- 
ercise !  "  said  Miss  Pelton,  pertly. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Mrs.  Coates,  "  how  often  I  used  to  say  that 
to  Mr.  Coates  before  he  got  to  be  forehanded  1  Why,  we  used 
to  move  every  first  of  May,  as  regular  as  the  year  come  round ; 
and  them  was  my  happiest  days.  I've  often  said  to  Jenny, 
'Jenny,'  says  I,  '  you'll  miss  one  thing  in  your  grand  house  that 
isn't  subject  to  a  dollar  of  mortgage ;  and  that's  ripping  up, 
and  carting  off,  and  starting  new.'  Children  that  begin  where 
their  fathers  and  mothers  leave  off,  lose  some  things  !  " — and 
Mrs.  Coates  sighed  as  if  there  came  to  her  ear,  across  arid  tracts 
of  prosperity,  the  musical  rumble  and  the  refreshing  vision  of  an 
overloaded  furniture- wagon. 

"  Ah  !  And  what  is  the  absorbing  topic  of  conversation 
this  morning  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Morgan,  who  had  entered  the  group 
with  her  tall  and  comely  daughter. 

If  the  curious  reader  should  wonder  just  here,  or  has  won- 
dered before,  why  so  many  ladies  should  be  together  on  a  for 
eign  voyage,  without  their  acquired  or  natural  protectors,  let  it 
not  be  supposed  that  those  protectors  had  been  separated  from 
them  by  divorce  or  drowning.  They  were  only  journeying 
after  the  manner  of  many  American  ladies,  when  they  undertake 
a  European  trip.  It  is  a  little  bad  for  their  husbands  and 
homes,  perhaps,  but  it  is  their  pleasure.  At  this  moment, 
those  upon  the  deck  of  the  "  Jungfrau"  were  returning  to  them 
unexpectedly,  to  find  their  husbands  at  their  business,  probably, 
— possibly  at  the  club, — possibly  anywhere  but  where  they 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  93 

ought  to  be.  But  that,  in  turn,  is  their  husbands'  pleasure, 
which  preserves  a  pleasant  balance  in  what  are  by  courtesy 
denominated  "  the  domestic  relations." 

Mrs.  Morgan's  stately  inquiry  was  met  with  silence,  which 
grew  awkward  at  last,  and  then  Nicholas  told  her  that  he  had 
been  kindly  invited  by  the  two  ladies  to  be  their  guest  while  he 
remained  in  the  city. 

"Have  you  accepted  their  invitation?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Morgan. 

"  I  can  hardly  accept  them  both,"  Nicholas  replied,  with  a 
show  of  embarrassment. 

"  Then  let  me  help  you,  by  asking  you  to  be  my  guest." 

"  Thank  you  ! "  said  Mrs.  Ilmansee,  sharply.  "  I  believe  I 
have  the  first  claim." 

"  Oh  !  you  have  a  claim,  have  you  ?  Excuse  me  1  I  really 
did  not  know  that  the  matter  had  gone  so  far." 

And  Mrs.  Morgan  made  a  bow  in  mock  humility. 

Mrs.  McGregor,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  deck,  but  beyond  hearing  of  the  conversation,  saw  an 
excitement  kindling  in  the  group.  So  she,  with  her  buxom 
little  daughter,  came  over  to  learn  what  it  was  all  about.  The 
diamond  knobs  were  still  dancing  in  her  ears,  but  the  emi- 
grant's cloak  interfered  somewhat  with  the  elegance  and  im- 
pressiveness  of  her  bearing. 

"  We  are  having  claims  here  this  morning ! "  said  Mrs. 
Morgan,  in  a  tone  that  was  intended  to  be  bitterly  scornful. 

"  Why,  you  are  not  getting  ill-natured  ?  "  said  Mrs.  McGregor, 
deprecatingly. 

"  Not  in  the  least !  Oh,  not  in  the  least ! "  responded  pretty 
Mrs.  Ilmansee,  turning  up  her  nose. 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  McGregor,  looking 
doubtfully  from  one  to  another. 

"  Oh,  nothing  ! "  replied  Mrs.  Morgan  ;  "  next  to  nothing  at 
at  all !  I  invited  Mr.  Minturn  to  be  ray  guest  after  our  arrival 
in  the  city,  and  Mrs  Ilmansee  says  she  has  a  claim  upon  him. 
It's  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  I  assure  you.' 


94  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  McGregor,  whose  arm 
had  been  suggestively  pinched  by  Miss  McGregor,  "I  think  I 
can  make  him  as  comfortable  as  any  one,  and  my  house  is  quite 
at  his  disposal,  now,  or  at  any  time  when  he  may  visit  the 
city." 

This  was  the  highest  bid  that  had  been  made,  and  the  evi- 
dent air  of  superiority  with  which  it  was  made  did  not  tend  to 
allay  the  jealous  feeling  prevalent  in  the  group. 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Morgan. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  ladies,"  said  Mrs.  Ilmansee,  her 
black  eyes  sparkling  with  angry  annoyance,  "  why  I  am  treated 
with  so  little  consideration  ?  I  gave  the  first  invitation,  and  I 
think  it  would  be  proper  to  wait  until  I  have  my  reply,  before 
you  give  yours." 

"  I  have  no  words  to  bandy  with  any  one,"  said  Mrs.  Mc- 
Gregor, with  dignity ;  "  but  I  see  no  reason  for  withdrawing 
my  invitation." 

Out  of  the  best  of  kind  feeling,  the  shower  had  risen  quickly. 
It  was  nothing  but  a  scud,  that  so  often  overspreads  the 
sweetest  sky,  and  Nicholas,  getting  his  chance  at  last,  and 
determined  to  stop  the  conversation,  said  : 

"  Ladies,  you  are  all  very  kind,  but  you  have  embarrassed 
me,  and  given  me  no  chance " 

Mrs.  Coates  thought  matters  had  gone  far  enough,  and  felt 
as  if  Nicholas  would  make  them  worse.  So,  in  the  goodness 
of  her  nature,  she  interrupted  him,  before  he  had  completed 
what  he  had  proposed  to  himself  to  say. 

"  Stop,  I  beg  you,"  said  she,  laying  her  hand  persuasively  on 
the  arm  of  the  young  man.  "  Stop,  and  let  me  pour  some  ile 
on  these  troubled  waters.  If  there's  any  claims  here  this  morn- 
ing, I  have  one.  Number  two  is  my  number,  but  I  give  it  up 
cheerfully  for  the  sake  of  peace.  Mr.  Coates  has  said  to  me, 
often  and  often,  'Mrs.  Coates,  you  are  the  greatest  woman 
for  pouring  ile  on  troubled  waters  I  ever  see.'  Says  I,  '  Mr. 
Coates,  I  shall  always  do  it.  So  long  as  the  Lord  lets  me  live, 
I  shall  make  it  a  part  of  my  business,  whenever  I  see  troubled 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  95 

waters,  to  pour  ile  on  'em.  Blessed  are  the  peace-makers,' 
says  I,  and  that's  just  where  I  want  to  come  in ;  and  it  does 
seem  to  me  that  for  women  who  have  just  been  snatched  from 
the  jaws  of  destruction,  we  are  not  improving  our  judgments 
as  we  ought  to.  I  have  often  said  to  Mr.  Coates,  '  Mr.  Coates,' 
says  I,  '  let  us  improve  our  judgments  as  well  as  our  privileges, 
for  then,'  says  I,  '  Mr.  Coates,  we  shall  stand  some  sort  of  a 
chance  for  more  privileges  than  judgments.  Never  let  it  be 
laid  to  our  door,'  says  I,  '  that  we  quarreled  in  the  midst  of  our 
judgments  and  our  mercies.'  " 

There  was  no  resisting  this  homely  appeal,  and  the  hearty 
laugh  that  followed  broke  the  spell  of  ill-nature  that  had  gath- 
ered upon  the  group.  Of  course,  nobody  had  intended  any- 
thing wrong.  Of  course,  nobody  was  ill-natured,  or  had 
dreamed  of  any  such  thing.  All  were  complaisant  and  self- 
sacrificing  at  once. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  say,"  Nicholas  resumed,  "  when  Mrs. 
Coates  interrupted  me,  that  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  all,  but 
I  have  a  very  dear  friend  in  the  city  who  would  never  forgive 
me  if  I  were  to  accept  an  invitation  which  would  take  me  away 
from  him.  I  shall  see  you  all  many  times,  I  hope." 

The  ladies  knew  that  Nicholas  was  to  be  crowned  a  hero, 
and  the  younger  ones  particularly  were  desirous  to  have,  as  a 
guest  in  their  houses,  the  young  man  who  had  saved  them. 
He  would  be  a  nice  man  to  talk  about,  and  to  show;  but 
Nicholas  had  settled  the  matter,  and  they  would  be  obliged 
to  get  along  without  him.  It  is  possible  that  they  were  all  the 
more  readily  reconciled  to  the  disappointment  from  the  fact 
that  the  young  man's  friend  might  enlarge  their  circle  of  ac 
quaintance.  But  who  knows  ?  Girls  have  many  thoughts  of 
which  they  are  not  more  than  half  conscious  themselves. 

Just  as  the  group  was  separating  in  the  best  of  good  humor, 
the  captain  approached,  and,  touching  his  cap,  informed  them 
that  they  were  not  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from 
land,  and  that  if  the  wind  held  they  would  find  themselves  in 
port  the  next  day.  This  gave  them  a  united  opportunity  to 


96  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

express  their  thanks  to  him,  for  the  humane  and  gallant  service 
he  had  rendered  them,  and  they  quite  overwhelmed  the  rough 
old  fellow  with  their  tianks. 

Then  they  all  went  below  under  the  impression  that  they  had 
immense  preparations  to  make  for  the  landing,  which  consisted, 
when  they  arrived  there,  of  a  simultaneous  attempt  to  impart 
the  glad  intelligence  to  those  passengers  who  were  still  in  con- 
finement. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

NICHOLAS    RENEWS    HIS  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  TERRA  FIRMA  AND 
COMES   TO   AN   UNDERSTANDING  WITH   THE  POP-CORN   MAN. 

IT  is  probable  that  no  company  of  passengers  ever  ap- 
proached the  much  longed-for  land  with  more  solemnity  than 
that  which  oppressed  the  returning  group  upon  the  "  Jungfrau." 
They  realized,  with  a  fresh  impression,  the  dangers  from  which 
they  had  escaped.  They  dreaded  to  hear  of  the  number  who 
had  not  shared  their  own  good  fortune.  They  could  not  doubt 
that  the  steamer  which  had  saved  so  many  had  already  reported 
herself  from  the  other  side,  and  that  they  had  all  been  the 
objects  of  the  most  painful  and  sickening  anxiety.  After  the 
long  strain  upon  their  nerves,  and  their  efforts  to  keep  up  their 
own  and  each  other's  courage,  the  reaction  came ;  and  weep- 
ing groups  thronged  the  little  deck  all  day,  and  few  slept 
during  the  night  which  separated  them  from  their  homes. 

Early  on  the  following  morning,  the  "  Jungfrau  "  was  boarded 
by  a  pilot,  who  brought  with  him  a  large  bundle  of  papers. 
Already  the  land  was  in  sight,  and  lay  like  a  dim  cloud  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon  before  them  ;  but  the  passengers  were  too 
much  absorbed  in  the  news  from  home  to  give  it  more  than  a  sin- 
gle glance.  The  rescuing  steamer  had  arrived  at  Queenstown, 
three  or  four  days  before,  and  her  sad  news  of  the  collision  had 
been  spread  all  over  the  country.  New  York  was  throbbing 
with  excitement.  The  full  list  of  passengers  upon  the  "  Ari- 
adne "  was  published,  side  by  side  with  the  list  of  those  who 
had  been  saved  by  the  reporting  steamer,  and  all  hearts  had 
turned  to  the  strange  vessel  that  had  been  the  cause  of  the 
mischief  and  had  assisted  in  the  rescue.  If  she  had  been 
fatally  damaged,  it  was  supposed  that  she  would  hardly  have 
thought  of  anything  but  taking  care  of  herself.  This  fact,  in 


98  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

the  abounding  speculation  that  the  papers  indulged  in,  was  re- 
garded as  favorable  to  the  safety  of  such  of  the  passengers  as 
she-had  picked  up.  But  all  was  uncertainty,  anxiety,  and  fore- 
boding. 

A  siqgle  item  of  intelligence  interested  Nicholas  profoundly, 
and  he  made  haste  to  communicate  it  to  Miss  Larkin.  A 
somewhat  extended  paragraph  was  devoted  to  Mr.  Benson, 
who,  it  was  stated,  became  hopelessly  separated  from  his  waid, 
a  helpless  invalid,  during  the  confusion  which  attended  the  col- 
lision. The  boat  in  which  he  endeavored  to  secure  safety  for 
her  was  pushed  off  without  her,  and  the  probabilities  were  that 
she  was  lost.  It  was  almost  impossible  that,  in  her  circum- 
stances, she  could  have  been  saved.  As  for  Mr.  Benson  him- 
self, he  had  been  a  ministering  angel  throughout  the  voyage  to 
the  sufferers,  sparing  neither  labor  nor  sleep  on  their  behalf. 
The  English  papers  were  full  of  his  praise,  and  crowned  him 
the  hero  of  the  whole  affair.  New  York  was  proud  of  him, 
and  promised  him  a  befitting  welcome  whenever  he  should  re- 
turn. His  self-sacrificing  devotion  to  others,  in  this  terrible 
emergency  that  had  deprived  him  of  one  of  the  loved  ones  of 
his  own  household,  had  woven  a  becoming  crown  for  a  life  of 
eminent  integrity  and  conspicuous  usefulness. 

When  Nicholas  had  read  the  paragraph  to  her  which  con- 
tained all  this  fulsome  praise,  Miss  Larkin's  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"  It  is  just  as  I  told  you,"  she  said ;  "  he  has  lied  to  cover 
his  cowardice  and  treachery.  The  story  of  his  separation  from 
me  came  only  from  him,  and  was  told  under  the  belief  that  it 
could  never  be  contradicted." 

"  What  will  you  do  about  it  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  Nothing.  I  shall  never  betray  his  falsehood ;  but  some 
time  he  will  know,  not  only  that  he  forsook  me  before  my  con- 
scious eyes,  but  that  I  know  that  he  lied  about  it.  There  is 
no  point  now  at  which  he  can  pause.  I  believe  I  would  have 
been  willing  to  die  to  save  him  from  his  irreparable  loss." 

This  one  shadow  darkened  all  the  sky  for  Miss  Larkin.     A 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  99 

thousand  times  glad  to  get  home  to  her  multitude  of  friends, 
she  looked  forward  to  their  minute  inquiries  with  shrinking 
apprehension,  and  to  her  future  meeting  with  her  guardian  with 
unspeakable  dread.  Every  grateful  joy  that  sprang  within  her 
faded  and  fell  before  the  breath  of  this  monster  grief.  She 
could  not  lie  to  shield  her  legal  protector.  She  must  refuse  to 
talk  about  him  and  the  circumstances  of  her  rescue.  Even 
this  thought  was  embittered  by  the  belief  that  he  had  coolly 
calculated  all  the  chances  in  the  case,  and  had  relied  on  her 
forbearance,  in  the  improbable  event  of  her  rescue. 

Winds  were  baffling  and  unsteady,  and  the  progress  toward 
the  city  was  slow.  It  was  not  until  mid-afternoon  that  the 
"  Jungfrau"  reached  Quarantine.  A  despatch  for  the  city  had 
already  been  prepared,  announcing  the  arrival  of  the  ship  and 
the  names  of  the  rescv"»d  passengers  whom  she  had  on  board. 
Half  an  hour  only  was  necessary  for  the  despatch  of  a  tug-boat, 
with  a  dozen  enterprising  reporters,  bound  for  the  vessel. 
Extras  were  at  once  issued,  announcing  the  glad  event,  and 
the  universal  excitement  of  a  few  days  before  was  renewed. 
The  friends  of  the  rescued  passengers  rushed  to  the  dock  to 
which  the  tug  was  expected  to  return,  and  waited  there  for  long 
hours,  their  numbers  constantly  augmented  by  idlers  and  by  sad 
men  and  women,  who  clung  to  their  last  hope  that  at  least  one 
name  had  been  omitted  by  mistake  from  the  list  of  the  saved. 

When  the  tug  arrived  at  the  vessel,  the  reporters  sprang  on 
board,  note-books  in  hand,  to  glean  every  item  from  every  lip 
that  could  be  pressed  or  coaxed  into  conversation  ;  and  every 
reporter  was  overloaded  with  the  praises  of  Nicholas.  He  had 
saved  a  great  number  of  lives,  and  he  was  followed  up,  looked 
at,  questioned  in  regard  to  his  home,  his  age,  his  adventures 
and  experiences,  his  height,  his  weight,  his  profession,  and  even 
his  relations  to  the  young  ladies  on  board.  They  penetrated 
the  cabin,  borne  on  the  wings  of  their  fluttering  little  note- 
books, like  bees  into  a  parterre  of  flowers.  Mrs.  Coates  had 
half  a  dozen  about  her  at  once,  who  became  the  readiest  and 
most  absorbent  audience  she  had  ever  enjoyed.  She  assured 


lod  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

them  that  Nicholas  had  proved  himself  to  be  a  perfect  wind 
fall,  which  in  her  simple  mind  and  scant  vocabulary  was 
equivalent  to  pronouncing  him  "a  providence;"  and  she  ex- 
pressed a  hope,  with  a  warm  thought  of  Jenny  in  her  heart, 
that  he  would  prove  to  be  so  in  the  future.  Miss  Larkin  would 
say  nothing,  but  they  all  took  pen-portraits  of  her.  It  was  a 
lively  time  for  these  professional  news-hunters,  and  they  made 
the  most  of  their  opportunities,  according  to  their  habit. 

At  last,  it  was  concluded  to  send  the  "  Ariadne's "  passen- 
gers up  to  the  city  on  the  tug,  as  the  formalities  connected 
with  the  reception  and  dismissal  of  the  immigrants  promised  to 
be  tedious.  They  renewed  their  tearful  thanks  to  the  good- 
natured  captain  for  all  his  humane  service,  not  forgetting  the 
sailors  who  had  assisted  in  the  rescue,  and  then,  stepping  on 
board  the  tug,  bade  farewell  to  the  stanch  craft  which  had 
borne  them  so  safely  and  comfortably  back  to  their  homes. 

The  scene  which  followed  their  arrival  at  the  dock  was 
vividly  represented  in  the  papers  of  the  following  day. 
Women  fainted  in  each  other's  arms.  Husbands  and  fathers 
embraced  wives  and  daughters  in  an  indescribable  delirium  of 
joy,  unmindful  of  the  curious  witnesses  of  their  transports. 
Nicholas  was  pulled  from  one  to  another,  to  be  introduced  to 
home  friends.  He  was  covered  with  praises,  and  overwhelmed 
with  thanks.  He  found  it  impossible  to  leave  until  every  lady 
was  dispatched.  Carriages  were  in  readiness  from  every  house 
whose  returning  treasures  were  represented  among  the  group, 
and  with  waving  of  hands  and  handkerchiefs,  and  tossing  of 
kisses,  and  responses  to  invitations,  Nicholas  saw  them  all 
pass  off,  with  sadness,  and  almost  with  envy,  in  his  heart. 

During  all  this  scene,  which  probably  lasted  half  an  hour 
there  were  silent  witnesses  around,  who,  after  anxiously  scan- 
ning  every  face  of  the  returning  passengers,  went  away,  one  by 
one,  in  silence  and  bitter  tears,  to  desolated  homes.  Among 
the  members  of  this  outside  group,  watching  everything  with 
keen  and  tearful  eyes,  there  was  a  young  man  whom  Nicholas 
had  been  too  busy  to  see.  As  the  latter,  with  a  mob  of  open- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  101 

mouthed  boys  around  him,  started  to  leave  the  dock,  his  arm 
was  quietly  taken  and  pressed  by  some  one  who  said  in  the 
quietest  way  : 

"  Hullo,  old  boy  !     Glad  to  see  you !  " 

Nicholas  stopped  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"Glezen!" 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Glezen.  "  We  are  observed.  There  is  a 
reporter  sitting  on  your  left  ear  at  this  instant." 

"  But,  Glezen  !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  endeavoring  to  shake 
off  his  friend,  in  order  to  give  him  an  appropriate  greeting. 

His  friend  would  not  be  shaken  off.  He  pressed  his  arm 
closer,  and  pulled  him  on.  He  marched  him  straight  up  Cortlandt 
street  into  Broadway.  He  led  him  up  Broadway  to  a  cloth- 
ing house,  and  then  passed  him  into  the  hands  of  a  shopman, 
with  directions  to  dress  him  according  to  his  best  ability.  After 
this  process  had  been  satisfactorily  accomplished,  he  took  his 
arm  again  and  conducted  him  to  a  restaurant,  where  Nicholas, 
with  a  huge  appetite,  ate  the  first  good  meal  he  had  seen  for 
many  days.  Then  he  took  him  to  his  office,  and  throwing  him- 
self into  a  theatrical  attitude,  said  : 

"  Dearest  Nicholas,  come  to  my  embrace." 

The  performance  was  absurd  enough,  but  it  was  hearty  and 
characteristic. 

"  Now  sit  down,"  said  Glezen,  "  and  let  me  look  at  you,  and 
talk  to  you.  I'm  not  going  to  cry " — blowing  his  nose  and 
wiping  his  eyes — "for  I  don't  believe  in  it.  I've  been  merci- 
fully preserved  from  making  an  ass  of  myself,  so  far,  and  I  shall 
go  through  all  right ;  but  I  want  to  tell  you  that,  as  a  father,  I 
am  proud  of  you.  Your  life  is  safe,  and  I  am  everlastingly 
glad.  I'm  glad,  too,  that  you  have  been  through  all  this,  and 
found  out  something  about  yourself.  I've  heard  all  about  it. 
You've  nothing  to  telt.  I  hooked  on  to  one  of  those  reporters 
while  you  were  seeing  your  friends  off,  and  he  told  me  every- 
thing. What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Will  you  try  another  voyage  ?  " 


102  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"No — certainly  not,  until  I  feel  like  it.  I  believe  I  am 
about  done  with  traveling  under  advice  and  directions." 

"That's  right.  Now  you  talk  like  a  man ;  but  what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  I  shall  do  something." 

"  Then  you'll  find  something  to  do." 

At  this  moment  the  latch  of  the  office  door  was  raised,  a  head 
was  thrust  in  whose  features  were  instantly  recognized,  and  the 
anticipated  word  "  pop  !  "  was  uttered  in  a  startling,  guttural 
voice. 

"  Come  in  ! "  said  Glezen. 

The  one-armed  pop-corn  man  entered.  He  was  dressed  in 
shabby  blue,  wore  on  his  head  a  military  cap,  and  in  his  only 
hand  bore  the  basket  that  contained  his  modest  merchandise. 
He  had  never  come  to  Glezen's  office  before,  but  he  evidently 
remembered  the  two  young  men. 

"  Say  1 "  said  he,  "  I've  seen  you  before." 

"  Yes,"  said  Glezen,  "  I  remember  you." 

"  And  one  of  you  bought  a  paper,  and  the  other  said  '  Get 
out!'"  responded  the  pop-corn  man;  "and  here,  gentlemen, 
is  the  lost  opportunity  !  Here  you  have  it !  Pop-corn  just 
salt  enough  !  Each  and  every  individual  kernel  has  a  jewel 
and  a  drop  of  blood  in  it  for  you." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Glezen,  "  you've  said  that  before.  Give 
us  something  new." 

"  Pop-corn,  gentlemen,  is  a  balm  for  wounded  hearts,  a 
stimulant  to  virtuous  endeavor,  a  sweetener  of  domestic  life, 
and  furnishes  a  silver  lining " 

"  Old,  old,  old  !  "  exclaimed  Glezen. 

"  It  adds  a  charm  to  the  cheek  of  beauty  when  applied  upon 
the  inside,  cures  heartburn,  tan,  freckles,  stammering,  head- 
ache corns,  and  makes  barks  to  dogs.  Five  cents  a  paper, 
and  just  salt  enough  !  How  many  papers  will  you  have,  gen- 
tlemen ?  " 

"  Look  here,"  said  Glezen,  with  a  mirthful,  quizzical  look  in 
his  eyes,  "  did  you  ever  suspect  that  you  are  a  nuisance  ?  " 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  103 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  pop-corn  man,  "  I  happen  to 
know  that  I  am  a  balm  and  a  blessing." 

"  And  a  bomb-shell  and  a  cotton-mill,"  added  Glezen. 

"  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever,  gentlemen.  Here's 
your  picture — a  one-armed  soldier  with  a  basket  of  pop- corn. 
Look  at  it,  gentlemen,  and  let  it  linger  in  your  memory.  How 
many  papers  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  See  here,  my  man,"  said  Glezen,  "  do  you  know  that  you 
can  do  something  a  great  deal  better  than  selling  pop-corn, 
and  putting  yourself  into  places  where  you  are  not  wanted  ?  " 

"  Open  to  conviction,"  said  the  pop-corn  man. 

"  Sell  yourself  for  old  brass,"  said  Glezen. 

The  man  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  while  an  expression  of 
pain  crossed  his  features. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he,  "  that  I  could  tell  you  that  there  was 
evidently  no  market  for  that  article  here,  and  hold  my  own, 
playing  the  blackguard  with  you  for  the  rest  of  the  evening ; 
but  I  don't  feel  up  to  it.  May  I  sit  down?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  to." 

The  man  set  his  basket  upon  the  floor,  took  off  his  cap,  dis- 
closing a  handsome  forehead,  laid  aside  his  professional  air, 
and  drew  up  and  seated  himself  on  a  chair  before  the  young 
men. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  said  he,  his  gray  eyes  gleaming  with 
painful  earnestness,  "  that  I  don't  know  that  I  am  a  nuisance  ? 
Do  you  suppose  that  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  for  me  to  push  my 
head  into  other  people's  doors,  and  disturb  them  in  their  work 
and  their  talk  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  and  feel  that 
it's  an  outrage  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  make  a  clown  of  myself, 
among  well-dressed  gentlemen  and  dirty  boys,  because  I  like 
it?" 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  said  Glezen. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  did,"  said  the  peddler  ;  "  but  some- 
times I  get  tired  with  carrying  my  disgusting  load,  and  then  I 
want  to  be  myself  for  a  while.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  you 
two  fellows,  sitting  so  cozily  here  together,  and  looking  upou 


io4  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

the  poor  peddler  with  such  contempt,  make  me  feel  as  if  a 
little  of  your  respect  for  the  man  whom  necessity  compels  to 
play  a  part  would  be  pleasant.  I'm  having  a  hard  life.  It's 
devilish  hard  to  be  alone, — not  to  have  a  man  that  I  can  shake 
hands  with,  unless  it  be  some  rascal  whose  touch  is  a  disgrace." 

The  young  men  were  thoroughly  surprised.  The  changed 
bearing  of  the  man  before  them,  his  well-chosen  language,  his 
evident  deep  feeling  and  sincerity,  impressed  them  with  respect. 

-'  Do  you  mind  telling  us  about  yourself?  "  inquired  Nicho- 
las, whose  sympathy  had  been  touched. 

"  Oh,  well,  there's  not  much  to  tell, — not  much  that  is  new 
in  the  world.  I  was  afflicted,  a  few  years  ago,  with  a  disease 
called  patriotism.  It  was  very  prevalent  at  the  time,  and  I 
took  it.  When  I  got  through  with  it,  or  it  got  through  with 
me,  I  found  an  arm  gone.  I  had  served  my  country,  but  lost 
the  means  of  taking  care  of  myself,  and  providing  for  my  wife 
and  children.  People  rejoiced  in  the  victory  I  had  helped  to 
win,  but  they  forgot  me.  A  one-armed  soldier  who  needed 
help  was  a  nuisance.  I  suppose  I  could  have  begged,  but  I 
had  a  prejudice  against  that  way  of  getting  a  living.  I  suppose 
I  might  have  borrowed  or  hired  a  hurdy-gurdy,  and  tormented 
people's  ears,  and  hung  out  an  empty  sleeve  as  a  plea  for 
charity,  but  I  didn't  like  that.  So  I  took  up  that  old  basket, 
set  my  wife  and  children  to  popping  corn,  and  went  to  peddling. 
I  don't  know  exactly  how  I  worked  into  it,  but  my  tongue  was 
ready,  and  I  found  that  I  had  a  new  way  of  amusing  the  crowd. 
They  bought  my  corn,  and  I  have  been  able  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door.  The  fact  is,  I  saved  something  at  first,  while 
my  trick  was  new,  though  I  can't  get  that  now.  It's  safe 
enough,  I  suppose,  but  I  have  sadly  needed  it." 

"  Where  is  it  ?     Who  has  it  ?  "  inquired  Glezen. 

"  Oh,  a  good  man.  I  thought  he  was  gone  once,  but  they 
say  he  is  all  right.  He  was  on  the  '  Ariadne.'  " 

"You  don't  mean  Mr.  Benson  ?"  said  Nicholas. 

"Well,  I  do  mean  just  that  man." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  all  right,"  said  Glezen. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  105 

"  Everybody,  says  so,"  replied  the  peddler.  "  You  know  we 
poor  people  are  all  a  little  scarey  about  savings  banks,  and 
lehen  we  find  a  straight  man  who  is  willing  to  take  our  money 
and  take  care  of  it,  we  let  him  have  it." 

"  But  won't  he  pay  it  back  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  says  it  is  invested  for  a  term  of  years,  and  he  can't  get 
it." 

"  Does  he  pay  the  interest  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Oh,  he's  a  straight  enough  man,  but  I  need  the 
money.  I'm  going  home  now  to  a  night  of  watching  over  two 
sick  children,  whose  medicine  I  was  trying  to  earn  when  I 
came  in  here.  I  am  going  home  to  an  overworked  wife"  and  a 
disordered  home.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  out  again  and  make 
fun  for  the  boys  and  a  nuisance  of  myself  to  such  fellows  as 
you.  There  is  life  for  you,  gentlemen :  how  do  you  like  the 
the  looks  of  it  ?  " 

';  Is  there  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  in  New  York  ?  "  inquired 
Nicholas. 

"  Much  of  it !  "  exclaimed  the  peddler.  "  Good  Heaven, 
man  !  where  have  you  lived  ?  Why,  I  am  a  king.  I  have 
money  with  Benson,  and  the  people  know  it.  I'm  so  rich, 
compared  with  the  miserable  wretches  around  me,  that  I'm 
afraid  of  being  robbed." 

"  You  may  leave  all  your  corn  here,"  said  Nicholas.  "  I 
shall  borrow  money  of  my  friend  here  to  pay  for  it,  for  I  am 
just  out  of  the  sea  myself." 

"  Did  you  just  come  in,  in  the  '  Jungfrau '  ?  "  inquired  the 
peddler. 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  your  name  Minturn  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

The  peddler's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  glad  to  have  a  chance 
to  look  at  you.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  the  talk  of  the 
town?" 

"I  hope  not." 

5* 


io6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Well,  you  are.     Will  you  let  me  shake  hands  with  you  ?  " 

t(  Certainly,"  tnd  Nicholas  gave  him  his  hand. 

"You  can't  buy  any  pop-corn  of  me  to  night,"  said  the  ped 
dler.     "It  isn't  for  sale." 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  name  and  address  ? "  inquired 
Nicholas. 

"  My  name  is  Timothy  Spencer.  People  call  me  '  Talking 
Tiir..'  My  address  I'm  ashamed  to  give  you.  If  you  ever 
want  anything  of  me  I'll  contrive  to  see  you,  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  see  where  and  how  I  live." 

Then  turning  to  Glezen,  he  said  : 

"  This  is  your  place,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  want  a  boy  ?  " 

"No,  I'm  just  starting,  and  haven't  anything  for  him  to  do. 
I'm  in  the  economical  line  just  at  present." 

"  I've  got  a  boy,"  said  the  peddler,  stroking  his  rough  beard 
with  his  single  hand,  "  who  is  going  to  the  dogs.  I  can't  take^ 
care  of  him.  He's  in  the  street  all  day.  He's  picking  up  bad 
companions  and  bad  habits,  and  I  want  to  put  him  somewhere. 
He's  as  smart  as  a  steel-trap,  but  there  isn't  any  more  rever- 
ence in  him  than  there  is  in  a  pair  of  tongs.  What  will  be- 
come of  poor  Bob  I  don't  know.  I've  got  troubles  enough, 
but  that  is  the  worst  one.  However,  you've  had  enough  of  me 
for  once.  I  thank  you,  gentlemen.  Good  evening." 

The  pop-corn  man  put  on  his  cap,  lifted  his  basket  with  a 
sigh,  and  bowed  himself  out.  The  two  young  men  listened  in 
silence  as  he  descended  the  stairs,  and  then,  as  he  walked  off, 
heard  the  shrill  cry  of  "pop-corn,"  followed  by  a  huge  laugh 
from  a  dozen  voices.  Each  looked  into  the  other's  face  in- 
quiringly, and  then  Nicholas  said  : 

"  Is  he  genuine  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Glezen  answered.     "  I  think  he  is." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Nicholas,  "  and  I  mean  to  see  more  of  him. 
Do  you  know,  Glezen,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment  of  reflec- 
tion, "  that  it  seems  to  me  that  a  young  man,  situated  as  I  am, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  107 

with  nothing  under  heaven  to  do,  can  hardly  find  anything  bet- 
ter in  the  way  of  employment  than  in  helping  such  fellows  as 
this  ?  Where  I  live,  everybody  is  at  work,  and  everybody 
seems  comfortable,  but  how  a  man  can  enjoy  his  luxuries  and 
his  idleness  here,  where  people  are  half  starving  around  him,  I 
can't  understand." 

"  Come  down  to  New  York,  my  boy.  You'll  have  your 
hands  full  here,"  said  Glezen,  "  but  where  you  find  one  Talking 
Tim  you'll  find  a  thousand  scamps.  The  lies  told  here  in  one 
day  by  beggars  and  dead-beats  would  swamp  a  hundred  '  Ari- 
adnes.'  If  you  can  preserve  a  spirit  of  charity  here  through  a 
single  season  you  will  do  better  than  I  have  done.  I  can  look 
a  beggar  in  the  face  now  till  I  look  him  out  of  countenance." 

"  But  you  can't  afford  that,  you  know,"  said  Nicholas. 

"I  can't  afford  anything  else,"  said  Glezen,  laughing,  "until 
the  exchequer  is  a  little  better  supplied." 

Glezen  closed  his  office  and  took  Nicholas  home  to  his 
room,  where  they  passed  the  night.  The  next  morning,  Nich- 
olas, taking  Glezen  with  him,  made  hurried  calls  upon  his  ac 
quaintances  of  the  "  Ariadne  "  and  the  "  Jungfrau,"  and  ex- 
cusing himself  from  the  invitations  that  met  him  and  his  friend 
everywhere,  started  for  Ottercliff  and  his  home,  to  receive  the 
welcome  and  the  congratulations  of  his  household  and  his 
neighbors. 

The  three  weeks  of  his  absence  seemed  like  a  life-time.  The 
new  relations  he  had  established,  the  new  motives  which  had 
been  born  within  him,  the  knowledge  he  had  gained  of  him- 
self, endowed  his  life  and  his  future  with  a  new  significance. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IN   WHICH   MR.    BENSON   RETURNS,    AND   RECEIVES   SOME    FRESH 
INFORMATION   CONCERNING   HIMSELF. 

IT  is  a  terrible  thing  for  a  man  of  great  self-love  and  self- 
conceit,  or  of  a  pride  of  character  which  has  been  nursed 
through  long  years  by  public  trust  and  public  praise,  to  dis- 
cover, either  that  before  certain  temptations  he  is  hopelessly 
weak,  or  that  the  motives  of  his  life,  which  he  supposed  were 
high  and  pure,  are  base  and  selfish.  The  consciousness  of 
that  one  weak  spot  in  his  nature  or  character  is  at  first  a  fear- 
ful pang,  which  he  tries  to  forget  and  tries  to  hide.  He  natu 
rally  runs  into  new  activities  in  the  line  of  duty,  reaches  out  for 
artificial  aids,  seeks  for  new  indorsements,  and  strives  to  main- 
tain his  poise  by  busily  building  in  other  directions. 

So  long  as  a  man  believes  himself  worthy  of  the  respect  of 
others,  that  respect  is  a  grateful  help  to  him  ;  but  to  know  that 
he  is  most  unworthy  of  it,  and  still,  as  a  matter  of  policy,  to  be 
willing  to  receive  and  profit  by  it — to  welcome  the  hands  that 
paint  the  walls  and  scatter  flowers  upon  the  approaches  of  the 
sepulcher,  which  he  knows  himself  to  be  ;  to  be  willing  and 
constantly  desirous  to  be  thought  something  better  than  he  is, 
is  to  take  a  fatal  step  toward  demoralization  and  darkness. 

The  alternative  is  to  go  back  and  become  a  child.  It  is  to 
pull  down,  and,  laying  better  foundations,  to  begin  to  build 
anew.  The  trouble  is  that  when  the  character  falls,  the  pride 
is  left.  The  frail  walls  may  be  licked  clean  to  the  dust  by  the 
consuming  element  that  has  assailed  them,  but  the  ghostly 
chimney  around  which  they  were  built,  and  upon  which  they 
were  dependent  for  light  and  warmth,  still  stands  stark  and  uu 
humbled. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  109 

Mr.  Benson's  untiring  and  unsleeping  devotion  to  the  suffer- 
jrs  upon  the  rescuing  steamer  was  something  new  to  himself, 
and  new  to  his  friends.  He  had  never  been  regarded  as  a 
-ympathetic  man.  Indeed,  he  had,  in  a  great  measure,  es- 
chewed sympathy  as  a  motive  to  action.  He  had  not  been 
considered  a  charitable  man.  He  was  known  mainly  as  a  just 
man,  who  discharged  what  he  supposed  to  be  his  duty  to  those 
who  came  into  business  or  social  relations  with  him.  What 
seemed  to  him  to  be  his  duties  with  regard  to  the  instituted 
charities  on  whose  lists  of  benefactors  his  name  might  appear 
with  others,  and  in  whose  management  he  might  have  an  official 
voice,  he  discharged  with  becoming  self-sacrifice  and  appro- 
priate dignity ;  but  he  never  went  out  of  his  way,  led  by  the 
hand  of  humanity,  into  any  irregular  benevolence.  To  en- 
danger his  health  by  watching  with  the  sick,  even  of  his  own 
family,  was  never  expected  of  him. 

So,  when  his  ministry  to  the  rescued  sufferers  was  reported 
to  his  fellow-citizens,  they  concluded  that  they  had  hitherto 
done  him  injustice,  or  had  failed  to  render  to  him  the  full  jus- 
tice that  was  his  due.  It  was  a  new  and  beautiful  development 
of  character.  The  just  man — a  man  of  dutiful  punctilio  and 
routine — had  blossomed  into  a  good  man — a  man  of  spon- 
taneous and  sympathetic  self-sacrifice.  The  praises  that  were 
showered  upon  him  pleased  him,  although  he  knew  that  he  was 
only  trying  to  forget  himself,  to  atone  for  his  selfish  cowardice, 
and  to  build  to  his  reputation  new  beauties  and  new  defenses. 

On  landing  at  Queenstown,  his  first  inquiry  was  for  a  return- 
ing steamer.  Several  days  elapsed  before  one  to  which  he  was 
willing  to  intrust  himself  entered  the  port,  but  he  was  able  to 
learn  nothing  of  the  party  from  which  he  had  been  separated 
in  the  rescue,  and  he  sailed  at  last  in  uncertainty  concerning 
the  fate  of  his  ward.  At  the  moment  of  his  embarkation,  the 
"  Jungfrau  "  was  in  sight  of  land,  but  of  this  he  knew  nothing. 
Daj  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  he  scanned  the  possibili- 
ties and  probabilities  of  the  case,  and  was  shocked  into  the 
keenest  torture  to  find  how  easily  he  could  be  reconciled  to  the 


no  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

loss  of  a  dozen  lives,  if,  by  that  loss,  his  own  treacherous  cow. 
ardice  could  be  forever  hidden  from  the  world.  His  mind  was 
in  a  mad,  remorseful  turmoil,  during  every  waking  moment. 
He  was  angry,  disgusted,  shamed  with  himself.  He  tried  to  fly 
from  his  unworthy  thoughts. 

Sometimes  he  would  talk  with  every  person  he  met.  Then 
he  would  pace  the  deck  for  hours  alone,  trying  to  bring  on 
weariness  that  would  insure  him  forgetful  sleep.  Those  who 
knew  his  story — and  all  soon  became  familiar  with  it — pitied 
him,  and  tried  to  comfort  him.  His  grief  and  distress  over  the 
probable  loss  of  one  who  was  not  bound  to  him  by  any  tie  of 
consanguinity,  was  set  down  to  his  credit ;  and  then  he  was 
angry  with  himself  because  he  was  pleased  with  a  misappre- 
hension that  enhanced  his  reputation  for  humanity. 

Often  when  he  realized  what  an  unworthy  sham  of  a  man  he 
was,  the  old  superstitious  fear  of  danger  came  back  to  him.  A 
piece  of  drift  floating  upon  the  waves,  a  distant  sail,  an  accom- 
panying bird,  brought  back  all  the  terrors  of  the  wreck,  and  he 
wondered  if  some  damning  fate  were  pursuing  him,  and  whether 
another  precious  freight  of  life  were  to  be  sacrificed  on  his 
account. 

On  the  eleventh  day,  land  was  discovered,  and  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting,  he  placed  his  foot  upon  the  solid  ground.  In 
the  haste  of  embarkation,  he  had  neglected  to  telegraph  his 
coming,  and  no  one  met  or  definitely  expected  him.  He  took 
a  carriage  at  once,  and  set  off  for  his  home. 

With  a  heart  throbbing  painfully,  he  rang  the  bell  at  his  door. 
The  servant  screamed  as  she  let  him  in,  and  his  household  was 
soon  about  him.  His  face  was  pale,  and  it  seemed  as  if  age  had 
planted  a  hundred  wrinkles  upon  it  since  he  had  gone  forth 
from  his  home.  He  had  not  kissed  his  children  for  years,  but 
then  and  there  he  kissed  them  all.  They  stood  stunned  and 
wondering  around  him,  trying  to  comprehend  the  transformation 
that  had  taken  place.  Mrs.  Benson  sighed  weakly  and  wept 
copiously,  for  she,  poor  woman,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  liberty 
auring  his  absence,  and  learned  with  self-condemnation  that 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  in 

she  could  have  been  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  the  man  who  had 
now  returned  to  her. 

"  Grace  Larkin  ?  "  he  whispered  inquiringly,  with  white  lips. 

"  She  is  here,  safe  and  well,"  Mrs.  Benson  replied. 

"  Thank  God  ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  pushing  by  them  all,  he 
sought  her  room,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him  j — an  act  which 
all  understood  as  a  command. 

Entering,  he  prostrated  himself  upon  his  knees  by  her  side. 
He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  covered  them  with  kisses. 

Miss  Larkin  was  overcome. 

"  Don't,  I  beg  you,  Mr.  Benson,"  she  said.  "  You  see  that  I 
am  safe  and  well.  Some  time  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  You 
are  quite  beside  yourself.  Please  bring  a  chair  and  sit  down 
by  me." 

<e  My  good  girl,  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  in  the  room  with  you," 
he  said,  still  groveling  at  her  side,  and  kissing  her  hands. 

Such  abjectness  of  humiliation  disgusted  her,  for  she  knew 
the  unworthy  source  of  it.  He  was  afraid  of  her.  Her  hands 
were  being  licked  by  a  fawning  dog,  and  she  pulled  them  away 
from  him,  and  wiped  them  with  her  handkerchief,  as  if  the 
slaver  had  polluted  them.  She  half  rose  from  her  cushions, 
pointed  to  the  chair,  and  said : 

"  Bring  that  chair  here,  and  sit  down  in  it,  or  leave  the  room 
until  you  can  control  yourself.  This  is  not  becoming  to  you 
or  pleasant  to  me." 

Mr.  Benson  rose,  begged  her  pardon,  brought  the  chair  to 
her  side,  and  took  his  seat  as  if  he  had  been  a  whipped  school- 
boy. 

"  Miss  Larkin,"  he  said,  "I  am  in  your  power.  Your  foot 
is  on  my  neck.  You  can  save  or  ruin  my  reputation.  I  assure 
you  that  I  left  you  in  a  fit  of  terror,  entirely  beyond  my  con- 
trol. I  did  not  intend  to  do  it.  I  have  been  filled  with  shame 
and  remorse  from  that  awful  moment  to  this." 

"  And  I  have  pitied  you  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,"  she 
said ;  "  but  your  reputation  is  no  more  in  my  hands  now  than 
it  has  been  for  months  and  years." 


na  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

These  last  words  ware  unpremeditated.  They  had  fallen 
from  her  lips  unbidden ;  but  the  man  who  had  aroused  her  long 
indignation  was  before  her,  an  humble  suppliant  for  mercy, 
and  the  sudden  determination  came  to  make  thorough  work 
with  him. 

He  looked  at  her  in  undisguised  surprise. 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Mr.  Benson,  I  have  been  for  a  long  time  a  member  of  your 
family.  Up  to  the  moment  when,  in  a  fit  of  cowardice,  you 
forsook  me,  you  have  treated  me  with  as  much  consideration 
as  I  deserve,  perhaps.  I  have  no  fault  to  find,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  Yet  I  have  learned  you  so  well,  that  when  you 
left  me  1  was  not  disappointed." 

Mr.  Benson  bit  his  lip,  but  remained  silent. 

"I  have  never  intended,"  she  went  on,  "to  say  what  the 
circumstances  of  the  moment  have  moved  me  to  say ;  and  if  I 
could  recall  the  words  that  make  it  necessary  to  justify  myself, 
I  would  do  so." 

She  saw  the  old  pride  kindling  in  his  face.  He  had  not 
entered  the  room  to  be  lectured.  He  grew  angry  at  finding 
himself  in  a  position  in  which  such  a  humiliation  was  possible  ; 
but  he  had  received,  as  yet,  no  assurance  of  safety  from  Miss 
Larkin's  lips,  and  he  could  not  afford  to  resent  the  affront. 

"Go  on,"  he  said.     "You  know  that  I  must  hear  you." 

"You  are  making  it  hard  for  me,"  she  replied,  "  but  you 
compel  me  to  say  that  the  domestic  life  of  this  house  has  been 
anything  but  an  honor  to  you,  and  that  if  the  friends  you  have 
in  such  numbers  in  the  outside  world  should  know  that  your 
wife  has  been  for  many  years  your  slave,  and  that  your  children 
stand  in  constant  fear  of  you,  their  admiration  would  be 
changed  to  contempt.  That  is  simply  what  I  meant  in  saying 
that  youi  reputation  is  no  more  in  my  hands  now  than  it  has 
been  for  months  and  years.  You  have  looked  for  your  rewards 
and  solaces  outside  of  your  home,  and  those  who  have  hun 
gered  for  the  love  that  was  theirs  by  right  have  been  kept  at  a 
cold  distance  and  starved.  You  have  given  them  a  comfoit- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  113 

able  home,  I  know ;  you  have  clothed  and  fed  them  ;  you  have 
educated  your  children ;  you  haxj  done,  I  have  no  doubt, 
what  seemed  to  be  your  duty,  but  you  have  denied  them  every 
grace  of  love  and  affectionate  communion.  They  have  had  no 
opinions,  no  liberties,  no  sentiments.  Your  will  has  been 
over  everything, — over  me,  indeed.  We  have  had  pleasant 
rimes  together,  but  you  have  never  mingled  in  them.  If  you 
could  know  how  even  I  have  longed  for  something  more  than 
your  stately  courtesies  and  the  exact  fulfillment  of  your  official 
duties,  you  would  at  least  know  how  it  is  possible  for  me  to  say 
what  I  have  said  to  you.  If  I  had  not  possessed  the  best  and 
sweetest  friends  God  ever  gave  to  a  woman,  I  should  long  ago 
have  been  starved,  myself." 

Mr.  Benson  rose  and  walked  the  room.  He  had  received 
through  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  whom  he  knew  to  be  pure  and 
true,  another  glimpse  into  himself,  and  into  his  life. 

"  My  God !  "  he  said,  "  am  I  so  bad  ?  " 

A  sense  of  danger  had  abased  his  pride,  but  a  reproof  had 
stimulated  it  into  life  again.  It  was  something  new  for  a  model 
man  to  be  found  fault  with,  especially  by  a  member  of  his  own 
household.  It  maddened  as  well  as  humiliated  him  to  be 
obliged,  by  what  he  deemed  his  necessities,  to  stand  calmly 
and  see  his  life  picked  in  pieces. 

"  I  think  you  are  unjust,  Miss  Larkin,"  he  said,  at  length. 
"  My  conscience  does  not  accuse  me.  I  have  had  no  time  for 
sentiment,  and  you  have  had  no  idea  of  the  exhausting  nature 
of  my  duties.  You  are  sincere,  doubtless,  and  mean  well ;  but 
you  are  misled,  and  I  forgive  you.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  not  harbored  a  thought  of  resentment  against 
you," 

"  Thank  you !     Bless  you,  my  girl !  "  he  responded. 

Still  he  did  not  stir.  There  were  others  who  had  witnessed 
his  cowardly  desertion  of  his  ward. 

"  Has  this  matter  been  talked  about  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes." 

"By  whom?" 


H4  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  By  Mr.  Minturn  and  myself." 

"  Will  he  betray  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  answer  that,  but  I  do  not  think  he  will  pain  ro« 
by  doing  so." 

"  Has  any  one  else  spoken  of  it  ?  " 

"  The  others  have  taken  the  statement  published  in  the 
newspapers  for  the  true  explanation,  I  think,  and  I  have  made 
no  efforts  to  undeceive  them." 

Mr.  Benson's  pale  face  became  flushed  and  then  became 
crimson.  The  consciousness  that  he  had  originated  the  false- 
hood, and  that  the  young  woman  before  him  knew  it,  pros- 
trated his  awakening  pride  in  a  moment.  He  sank  into  his 
chair,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  trembled  in  every 
fiber  of  his  frame. 

u  I  have  been  terribly  tempted  ! "  he  gasped,  "  but  I  have  no 
excuse  to  offer.  I  can  only  ask  you  to  pity  my  weakness  and 
spare  me." 

Miss  Larkin  was  overcome  by  the  strong  man's  humiliation, 
and  wept. 

"  This  is  the  worst  of  all,"  she  said,  "  but  I  forgive  you.  The 
sin,  however,  was  not  against  me." 

"Miss  Larkin,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  rising,  "I  have  disappointed 
you,  and  I  have  disappointed  myself.  I  am  not  at  all  the  man 
I  supposed  myself  to  be ;  but  I  hope  to  retrieve  my  character, 
even  with  you.  Be  my  friend,  and  help  me.  I  shall  trust  you." 

"  And  I  shall  not  betray  you,"  she  responded. 

Mr.  Benson  had  received  the  assurance  that  he  wanted,  and 
even  as  he  bade  her  good-evening  and  turned  to  leave  her,  she 
caught  the  gleam  of  triumph  in  his  eyes.  He  had  come  with 
his  one  selfish  object  in  his  heart,  and  though  he  had  been 
humbled  for  the  moment,  and  grievously  distressed,  the  selfish 
sense  of  safety  sprang  to  life,  and  he  left  her  strong  and  almost 
light-hearted.  She  remembered  that  he  had  not  once  asked  her 
concerning  the  particulars  of  her  rescue,  or  the  effect  of  her  ex- 
posure upon  her  health.  The  thought  of  himself  had  absorbed 
him  wholly. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  115 

And  then  the  reflection  came  to  her  that  she  had  tied  her 
own  hands,  and  that  his  faith  in  her  word  left  him  free  to  treat 
her  and  his  dependents  as  he  had  always  treated  them.  She 
had,  with  great  sacrifice  of  feeling,  tried  to  serve  his  family,  but 
she  had  given  the  word  that  made  her  labor  fruitless. 

Mr.  Benson  went  out,  where  he  found  his  family  awaiting 
him,  in  the  accustomed  silence.  He  took  his  hat  and  cane,  and 
said  to  his  wife : 

"  This  is  the  night  of  our  weekly  prayer-meeting.  I  shall  be 
late,  but  I  must  go." 

"  It  seems  as  if  you  might  stay  with  us  this  evening — after  so 
long  an  absence — and  such  an  escape  for  yourself — and  such 
anxiety  for  us  all " — said  Mrs.  Benson,  hesitatingly  and  plead- 
ingly. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  sternly,  "  if  I  ever  owed  a  duty 
to  the  church,  I  owe  it  now.  I  could  not  take  a  moment  of 
comfort  at  home,  even  to-night,  with  the  consciousness  that  I 
was  neglecting  a  duty." 

And  Mr.  Benson  was  thoroughly  sincere — or  he  thought  he 
was,  at  least.  His  sense  of  duty  was  not  at  all  that  sense  which 
springs  from  the  love  of  doing  right.  It  was  just  what  Nicho- 
las had  once  declared  to  be  a  commercial  sense.  He  wanted 
prosperity.  He  wanted  to  save  and  to  increase  his  good  repu- 
tation. He  would  have  liked  to  place  God  and  man  under 
obligations  to  him,  so  that  they  should  owe  him  a  duty.  He 
wanted,  at  least,  to  keep  even  with  them,  and  now  that  he  re- 
alized with  painful  and  humiliating  certainty  that  he  was  not 
even  with  them, — that  he  was  almost  hopelessly  in  debt, — he  saw 
before  him  a  life  of  painful,  and,  what  seemed  to  him,  self-deny- 
ing, service.  At  the  moment  he  determined  to  devote  himself 
to  duty,  wherever  he  should  find  it,  and  at  whatever  cost.  It 
seemed  to  him  to  be  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  regain  hii 
self-respect.  He  determined  to  atone  for,  and  pay  up,  his  ter- 
rible debt.  He  had  been  made  dimly  conscious  that  he  owed  a 
debt  to  his  family,  and  had  feebly  determined  to  pay  it  by  new 
privileges  and  greater  benefactions.  But  that  debt  could  wait. 


n6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

When  he  appeared  in  the  prayer-meeting,  all  eyes  were 
raised,  and  the  good  pastor  who  presided  poured  out  his  honest 
heart  in  thanksgiving  to  God  that  one  of  his  children,  who  had 
been  exposed  to  the  perils  of  the  great  deep,  had  been  returned 
to  them,  safe  and  sound,  to  go  in  and  out  before  his  brethren,  a 
shining  example  of  integrity  and  beneficence,  and  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  merciful  providence  that  follows  through  every  dan- 
ger those  who  put  their  trust  in  its  gracious  power. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  prayer,  Mr.  Benson  rose,  and  with 
broken  words  thanked  the  good  pastor  for  it.  The  people  had 
never  seen  him  so  humble.  The  man  who  went  out  from  them 
so  self-possessed,  so  calm,  so  strong,  was  broken  down.  He 
spoke  of  himself  as  a  miserable  offender — as  most  unworthy 
his  escape  from  what  proved  to  so  many  to  be  the  gate  of 
death,  of  his  gladness  to  be  once  more  in  the  place  where 
prayer  was  wont  to  be  made,  looking  again  into  the  friendly 
faces  of  his  brethren  and  sisters,  and  of  his  determination  to 
devote  himself  to  duty  as  he  had  never  done  before.  He  ad- 
monished them  all  to  redeem  their  time,  for,  at  longest,  it 
would  be  short,  and  assured  them  that  danger  thronged  every 
path,  on  the  land  as  well  as  on  the  sea. 

His  words  were  very  impressive.  Many  wept,  and  when  the 
benediction  was  pronounced,  all  felt  that  they  had  been  present 
at  one  of  the  most  solemnly  impressive  gatherings  of  their 
lives.  They  pressed  around  Mr.  Benson  to  shake  his  hand 
and  congratulate  him  on  his  safety,  not  only,  but  to  thank  him 
for  what  he  had  said.  They  all  felt  that  he  had  been  down 
into  a  deep  and  fructifying  experience,  and  that  he  whom  they 
had  deemed  so  cold  and  calm  had  been  lifted  into  a  warmer 
atmosphere  of  feeling,  and  had  received  a  new  impulse  in  the 
divine  life. 

Mr.  Benson  went  home  wonderfully  uplifted  and  comforted. 
He  had  confessed  his  sins  in  great  humility,  and  prayed  that 
they  might  be  forgiven.  It  is  true  that  he  had  not  called  those 
sins  by  name,  and  told  his  pastor  and  his  brethren  that  he  ap- 
peared before  them  a  convicted  coward  and  liar ;  but  he  had  con- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  117 

fessed  that  he  was  a  grievous  sinner,  and  that  had  relieved  him. 
He  had  earnestly  prayed  for  pardon,  and  that  had  comforted  him. 
He  had  exhorted  others  to  a  more  vigilant  and  zealous  Christian 
life,  and  he  had  won  from  this  act  the  comfort  of  a  duty  per- 
formed. He  had  received  the  assxirance  of  all  whom  he  had 
met  that  he  was  still  held  not  only  in  the  most  respectful  esteem, 
but  that  the  feeling  of  the  church  had  ripened  suddenly  into  a 
warm  affection.  Try  to  humiliate  himself  as  he  would,  the  old 
self-love  and  the  old  self-gratulation  returned  to  him  with  their 
accustomed  sense  of  sweetness.  He  tried  to  thrust  back  his 
rising  pride,  as  if  it  had  been  Satan  himself,  but  it  would  not 
away.  He  knew  that  his  cure  was  not  radical,  but  he  intended, 
in  some  way,  to  make  it  so. 

He  found  his  family  waiting  for  him,  contrary  to  their  wont. 
He  was  heartily  sorry  that  they  had  not  retired.  The  words  of 
Miss  Larkin  were  still  sounding  in  his  ears,  and  when  he  looked 
upon  the  silent,  expectant  group,  and  realized  not  only  how 
repressive  he  had  always  been  to  them — how  repressive  he  was 
to  them  at  that  moment — and  how  much  they  longed  for  his 
love  and  confidence,  his  heart  relented.  He  sat  down  and 
looked  at  them. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  we  have  not  always  lived  as 
we  ought  to  have  lived.  Children,  you  must  not  think  me 
unkind  if  I  have  failed  in  affection  to  you.  I  have  been 
a  busy  man.  My  mind  and  time  have  been  very  much  ab- 
sorbed. I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  you,  but  we  are  all 
liable  to  mistakes.  I  think  we  will  have  family  prayers 
to-night." 

"  Shall  we  not  go  into  Miss  Larkin's  room  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Benson.  "  I  am  sure  she  would  be  glad  to  have  us  do  so." 

"  No  ;  to-night  let  us  be  by  ourselves,"  said  the  husband  and 
father.  He  knew  that  the  form  of  this  reply  was  a  practical 
lie,  and  that  prayer  would  have  been  impossible  to  him  in 
Miss  Larkin's  presence.  Conscious  that  he  had  stumbled 
again,  and  half  in  despair,  he  took  his  Bible,  and  opened  to 
the  fifty-first  Psalm.  As  he  pronounced  with  a  husky  voice  its 


n8  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

passages  of  deep  and  overwhelming  contrition,  it  seemed  as  if 
it  had  been  written  for  him,  and  for  that  special  occasion. 

"  Wash  me  thoroughly  from  mine  iniquity,  and  cleanse  me  from  my  sin. 

"  For  I  acknowledge  my  transgressions :  and  my  sin  is  ever  befora 
me.  *  *  *  * 

"  Hide  thy  face  from  my  sins,  *  *  *  and  take  not  thy  Holy  Spirit 
from  me. 

"  Restore  unto  me  the  joy  of  thy  salvation,  and  uphold  me  with  thy  fre« 
spirit. 

"  Then  will  I  teach  transgressors  thy  ways,  and  sinners  shall  be  converted 
onto  thee.  *  *  *  * 

"  For  thou  desirest  not  sacrifice ;  else  would  I  give  it :  thou  jdelightest 
not  in  burnt  offering. 

"  The  sacrifices  of  God  are  a  broken  spirit :  a  broken  and  a  contrite 
heart,  O  God,  thou  wilt  not  despise." 

Covering  a  falsehood  in  his  heart,  glad  beyond  all  expression 
that  his  family  could  not  see  it,  almost  madly  regretful,  yet  not 
contrite  and  broken-spirited,  conscious  that  he  did  not  possess 
"truth  in  the  inward  parts,"  and  conscious,  too,  that  the  very 
means  he  had  proposed  to  himself  for  recovery  were  swept  out 
of  his  hands  by  the  declaration  that  sacrifice  was  not  what  God 
wanted  of  him,  he  closed  the  book  with  a  sigh,  and  knelt  down. 
His  prayer  was  brief  and  broken,  but  when  he  rose  from  his 
knees,  there  was  not  one  of  his  family  who  had  not  conceived 
a  tenderer  regard  for  him,  and  was  not  more  ready  than  ever 
before  to  approach  him  with  an  open  proffer  of  affection.  He 
kissed  them,  one  after  another,  as  he  parted  with  them  for  the 
night,  and  then  went  to  his  library  to  look  over  a  batch  of  long- 
unanswered  letters. 

Once  alone  in  his  accustomed  room,  where  he  had  so  long 
schemed  and  counted  his  gains,  he  came  fully  to  himself.  He 
was  glad  to  be  there  again, — glad  to  be  alone,  and  beyond  ob- 
servation. There,  without  distraction,  he  could  lay  his  plans 
for  his  future  life,  that  had  been  so  cruelly  interrupted  in  its 
flow  of  complacent  prosperity. 

Somehow,  in  the  presence  of  his  account-books,  he  found 
his  moral  purposes  weakening.  He  questioned  whether  he  had 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  119 

not  made  something  of  a  fool  of  himself, — whether  he  had  not 
aroused  expectations,  in  his  own  home,  at  least,  which  would 
be  a  sort  of  slavery  to  him. 

After  long  reflection,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must 
be  externally  consistent  with  his  old  self.  It  would  not  do  to 
lose  his  former  self-assurance,  his  air  of  superiority,  and  above 
all,  his  integrity.  Whatever  consciousness  of  weakness  and 
unworthiness  might  harass  him  must  be  carefully  covered  from 
sight.  His  struggles  should  be  between  himself  and  his  God. 
With  this  the  public  had  no  business,  and  of  it,  it  should  have 
no  knowledge. 

Almost  automatically  he  reached  up  and  took  down  his  blot- 
ter. Then  drawing  out  his  note-book,  he  charged  to  Miss 
Larkin's  estate  every  dollar  he  had  expended  during  the  ab- 
sence undertaken  on  her  behalf.  Then  he  reckoned  his  time, 
and  made  what  he  regarded  as  a  just  charge  for  that.  He 
raked  his  memory  and  his  note-book  all  over  for  items  of  ex- 
penditure that  could  be  justly  placed  in  the  same  account,  even 
reckoning  his  own  lost  clothing  that  had  gone  down  in  the 
"  Ariadne."  He  did  it  all  not  only  without  the  slightest  com- 
punction of  conscience,  but  with  a  sense  of  duty  performed, 
to  himself  and  his  family.  No  generous  thought  of  sharing 
her  loss  in  a  common  calamity  so  much  as  touched  him  by 
the  brush  of  a  garment.  He  felt  better  when  the  work  was 
done. 

Then  he  took  up  and  read,  letter  after  letter,  the  pile  of  mis- 
sives before  him.  The  last  one  of  the  number  had  been  placed 
upon  the  table  since  his  arrival,  and  purposely  put  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  pile,  so  that  it  should  in  no  way  come  between  him 
and  his  business.  It  was  in  Miss  Larkin's  handwriting,  and 
was  written  after  the  interview  which  has  been  described.  He 
opened  it,  and  read  : 

"DEAR  MR.  BENSON: — Some  time,  at  your  early  conveni- 
ence, I  would  like  to  see  you  alone  again.  There  are  matters 
of  which  I  wish  to  talk  with  you,  that  concern  my  future  and 


no  NICHOLAS  MINTURN: 

your  relations  with  me.     Do  me  the  favor,  and  oblige  /our 
ward, 

"  GRACE." 

Whatever  Mr.  Benson's  thoughts  were,  there  was  something 
in  them  that  moved  him  to  take  down  his  blotter  again  and 
look  over  the  charges  he  had  made.  Then  he  put  it  back, 
walked  his  library  for  a  while,  and  then,  with  uneasy  forebod- 
ings, sought  his  room  and  his  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN    WHICH    NICHOLAS    FINDS   HIMSELF    AT    HOME    AGAIN,    GEYS 

ACQUAINTED   WITH   BUSINESS,    AND   A  "  TRAMP " 

GETS   ACQUAINTED    WITH    HIM. 

NICHOLAS  having  telegraphed  his  departure  for  home,  was 
met  at  the  station  by  his  devoted  servant  Pont,  who  dropped 
his  hat  upon  the  platform,  seized  him  by  both  his  hands,  and 
shook  them  until  they  ached. 

'"Pears  like  you're  de  prodigal  son  done  come  back,"  said 
Pont.  "  I  tole  de  missis  she  muss  git  up  a  fuss-rate  veal  dinner 
for  yer  sho,  dis  time,  and  git  out  yer  silk  dressin'-gown,  an'  call 
in  de  neighbors,  cos  you'd  been  nigh  about  dead,  and  come  to 
lifeag'in." 

When  Pont  had  finished  his  little  speech,  which  he  had  been 
concocting  and  rehearsing  all  the  morning,  the  young  man's 
neighbors,  who  crowded  the  platform,  pressed  up  to  welcome 
him,  and  congratulate  him  upon  his  safety. 

It  was  very  pleasant  for  Nicholas  to  find  himself  among 
familiar  scenes  and  old  friends.  He  wondered  why  he  had 
ever  left  them  ;  and  between  the  station  and  his  home,  he  went 
through  the  experience  that  comes  once  to  every  sensitive 
young  man  with  the  first  consciousness  that  he  has  been  forever 
removed  from  the  sphere  of  dependence  to  a  life  of  active  and 
self-directed  manhood.  For  a  few  unhappy  minutes,  he  was 
filled  with  a  tender,  self-pitying  regret  that  he  could  never  again 
be  what  he  had  been.  He  shrank  from  life  and  its  responsi- 
bilities. He  half  wished  that  he  were  a  woman,  in  order  that 
he  might  honorably  bind  himself  to  retirement,  and  evade  the 
struggles  with  men  which  seemed  so  coarse  and  repulsive  to 
him.  But  he  had  learned  that  he  was  a  man,  and  knew  that 
6 


122  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

the  smooth,  round  shell  which  had  held  him  could  never  take 
the  fledgling  back. 

He  was  not  in  a  talkative  mood,  as  his  carriage  crawled 
slowly  up  the  Ottercliff  hill,  but  the  pressure  upon  Pont  was 
too  great  to  be  successfully  withstood. 

"  Tears  like  you's  a  pretty  good  Baptiss  now,  Mas'r  Min- 
turn,"  said  Pont,  looking  back  with  his  good-natured  grin. 
"You  done  come  to't  at  las'.  De  'Lantic  Ocean  done  de 
business  for  yer  dis  time,  mas'r.  I  know'd  you'd  be  fetched 
some  way,  an'  we's  got  de  prodigal  son  back  ag'in,  an'  had  'im 
baptize,  with  a  new  name." 

"Why,  Pont,"  said  Nicholas,  laughing,  "I  was  baptized 
when  I  was  a  baby." 

"  Ye  didn't  need  it  den,  I  gib  ye  my  word.  Ye  was  as  inno- 
cent as  a  lamb,  an'  ye  didn't  need  it.  It's  de  old  sinners 
dat  wants  washin'  in  deep  water.  You's  only  sprinkled,  I 
reckon  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  responded  Nicholas. 

"Now,  I  tell  ye  what  it  is,  mas'r,"  Pont  went  on,  as  if  he 
were  uttering  a  self-evident  theological  proposition ;  "  when  a 
man  gits  mercy,  he  wants  'mersion.  Sprinklin'  is  well  enough 
for  babies  ;  it  makes  'em  cry,  but  it  don't  hurt  'em.  'Mersion 
goes  with  mercy  ebery  time  wid  a  nigger,  an'  I  reckon  it's 
'bout  de  same  with  white  folks." 

"  What  were  you  saying  about  a  new  name,  Pont  ?  "  inquired 
Nicholas. 

"  Ah !  mas'r,  you  got  yer  new  name  dis  side  o'  Jordan, — 
Mas'r  Hero,  now.  Missis  read  it  to  me  in  de  papers." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  not  call  me  by  the  new  name,  Pont ;  I 
don't  like  it,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  I  kin  talk  about  it  to  de  hosses,  I  reckon  ? "  said  Pont 
inquiringly. 

"Yes,  but  never  to  people." 

Pont  was  filled  with  wonder  at  this  lefusal  of  Nicholas  to 
answer  to  the  name  that  had  been  given  to  him  at  the  time  he 
"administered  his  baptism,"  but  his  young  master  had  always 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  123 

been  an  enigma  to  him,  and  as  Pont  had  relieved  his  mind,  he 
left  him,  for  the  remainder  of  the  drive,  to  his  thoughts. 

"  Thee  is  very  welcome,  dear  Nicholas,  to  thy  home  again," 
said  sweet  and  tearful  Mrs.  Fleming,  as  he  alighted  at  the  door. 
There  was  no  kiss;  there  was  no  profusion  of  exclamations 
and  questions ;  there  was  no  effusion  of  sentiment,  but  there 
rested  on  the  face  of  the  placid  Quaker  lady  a  deep  and  tender 
joy. 

She  led  him  to  his  room  that  spoke  of  her  orderly  neatness, 
pressed  his  hand,  and  left  him.  He  was  once  more  in  the 
atmosphere  of  love  and  home  and  safety;  and  the  changes 
and  perils  through  which  he  had  passed  came  back  to  him 
with  a  power  that  overwhelmed  him.  He  dropped  upon  his 
knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed  where  he  had  so  often  knelt  with 
his  mother's  arm  around  his  neck,  and  wept  like  a  child.  He 
rested  his  head  on  his  hands  for  long  minutes,  in  a  tender  and 
almost  delicious  swoon  of  mingled  sorrow,  joy,  and  gratitude. 
His  welcome  had  been  sweet,  but  he  missed  with  a  pang  of 
which  he  did  not  believe  himself  susceptible  after  his  long  and 
stupefying  grief,  the  bodily  presence  of  one  who,  he  could  not 
but  believe,  still  knelt  by  his  bed  in  her  spiritual  form,  with  her 
arm  around  his  neck  and  a  blessing  on  her  lips. 

The  news  of  his  arrival  spread  quickly  through  the  village  of 
Ottercliff,  and  he  was  thronged  all  day  with  visits  of  welcome 
and  congratulation.  He  had  not  thought  of  the  old  friends  of 
his  mother  at  the  Catacombs,  or  on  the  Rhigi,  to  be  sure,  but 
they  were  apparently  as  glad  to  see  him  as  if  he  had  executed 
their  commissions.  Such  hearty  evidences  of  their  friendship 
were  very  grateful  to  him ;  and  the  joys  of  the  day  quite  repaid 
him  for  all  the  hardships  he  had  suffered,  and  the  dangers  to 
which  he  had  been  exposed. 

During  the  afternoon,  he  wrote  a  note  to  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold, 
requesting  him  to  come  to  him  on  the  following  morning,  bring- 
ing with  him  all  the  books  relating  to  his  estate,  and  all  the 
vouchers  for  his  investments.  He  had  determined  at  the 
earliest  moment  to  take  the  charge  of  his  own  affairs,  and  to 


124  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

retain  the  services  of  the  village  lawyer  as  his  adviser.  He 
would  assume  the  cares  that  belonged  to  him,  and  have  some 
thing  to  do. 

When  the  lawyer  appeared  with  his  huge  bundle  of  books 
and  papers  it  was  with  a  troubled  look  upon  his  face.  He  had 
done  his  work  well,  and  had  nothing  to  hide  ;  but  some  of  hi? 
work  was  incomplete,  and  he  anticipated  the  loss  of  a  lucrative 
trust. 

"  I  knew  it  would  come,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  it  would  come 
some  time," — and  he  tried  to  say  it  with  a  cordial  smile, — "  but  I 
thought  I  was  sure  of  you  for  the  next  two  years.  However, 
it  is  all  right,  and  if  you  wish  to  take  matters  into  your  own 
hands,  you  know  I  shall  not  be  far  off,  and  that  I  shall  always 
be  glad  to  serve  you." 

The  day  was  a  laborious  one  for  both,  for  it  took  a  long  time 
for  Nicholas  to  understand,  and  the  lawyer  to  explain,  the 
multitude  of  complicated  affairs  that  came  up  for  consideration. 
Everything  was  found  to  be  snug  and  safe, — everything  but 
one.  The  lawyer  had  made  a  recent  investment  in  bonds  for 
the  registration  of  which  he  would  be  obliged  to  make  a  visit 
to  New  York.  He  had  not  attended  to  this  because  the  bonds 
were  safe  under  his  lock  and  key,  and  his  work  had  crowded 
him. 

As  Nicholas  desired  to  go  over  the  business  again,  to  make 
sure  that  he  had  comprehended  it  all,  the  lawyer  consented  to 
leave  the  mass  of  his  documentary  materials  at  the  house  for 
the  night.  Nicholas  placed  them  in  the  family  safe,  locked 
them  in,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  and  weary  with  his  day's 
work,  took  a  seat  in  the  carriage  which  Pont  had  driven  to  the 
door  and  accompanied  the  lawyer  to  his  home.  He  was 
stopped  many  times  on  the  way  to  the  village  by  humble 
neighbors  who  had  had  no  opportunity  to  visit  him,  and  he  gave 
them  so  much  time  that  when  he  returned  the  sun  had  already 
set,  and  the  shadows  of  the  evening  were  gathering  upon  the 
river  and  the  landscape. 

Mrs.  Fleming  ordered   tea  to   be  served  upon  the  piazza, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  125 

Although  it  was  midsummer,  the  air  was  deliciously  cool  and 
refreshing.  With  only  a  question,  Mrs.  Fleming  set  Nicholas 
talking,  and  he  told  to  her,  for  the  first  time,  the  story  of  his 
wreck  and  rescue. 

While  they  sat,  the  moon  came  up,  broad  and  full,  casting 
deep  shadows  far  out  upon  the  river,  but  illuminating  the 
water  beyond  and  bringing  into  view  the  river  craft  as  they 
passed  up  and  down  the  beautiful  stream.  They  sat  for  a  long 
time  in  silence  when  they  noticed  a  schooner,  pointing  directly 
toward  the  house.  The  moon  lighted  up  her  canvas  and  they 
could  see  the  graceful  form  of  her  hull,  as  she  came  toward  the 
shore.  Then,  almost  in  an  instant,  she  disappeared,  for  she  had 
come  under  the  shadow  of  the  bluff. 

They  waited  for  a  few  minutes,  catching  now  and  then  the 
reflection  of  a  light.  But  the  light  went  out,  or  was  put  out 
of  sight.  The  two  questioning  watchers  said  nothing  to  each 
other  for  a  long  time.  Then,  at  the  same  instant,  they  noticed 
the  reappearance  of  the  light,  which  remained  apparent  long 
enough  to  show  that  the  schooner  had  come  to  anchor,  and 
was  still. 

"That  is  a  very  unusual  occurrence,"  said  Mrs.  Fleming. 

"  It  certainly  is,"  Nicholas  responded.  "  I  never  saw  a 
schooner  anchor  there  before.  What  can  they  want  ?  " 

At  this  moment  a  dark  figure  approached  them,  coming  up 
the  lawn.  They  knew  that  no  one  had  had  time  to  reach  them 
from  the  strange  craft,  so  Nicholas  said  : 

"  Pont,  is  that  you  ?  " 

"Yis,  mas'r." 

"  Where  have  you  been  at  this  late  hour  ?  " 

"  Been  on  de  look-out,  mas'r." 

"  Well,  what  have  you  seen  ?  " 

"I  seen  something  dat  don't  mean  no  good,  no  how,  sah, 
replied  the  negro. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  schooner  yonder  ?  " 

"Yis,  mas'r." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  it  means  ?  " 


126  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"I   do'  know,  sah,  but  it  don't  mean  no  good,    no   how 
Dem  men  haint  no  business  dah." 

"  Suppose  you  take  a  boat,  and  row  out  toward  them  and 
find  out  what  you  can." 

"Will  ye  go  'long,  sah?"  inquired  Pont,  who  evidently  had 
no  stomach  for  the  expedition. 

"  Yes,  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Nicholas ;  and,  taking  his  hat, 
he  followed  his  servant  down  the  narrow  path  that  led  to  the 
boat-house.  Arriving  there,  a  small  skiff  with  a  single  pair  of 
sculls  was  unfastened,  and  the  two  men  stepped  quietly  into 
it  and  pushed  off.  Pont  rowed  close  in  shore,  as  noiselessly 
as  if  he  had  been  an  Adirondack  hunter,  floating  for  mid- 
night game.  He  rowed  until  they  could  see  the  dark  hull 
of  the  schooner,  and  detect  the  lines  of  her  masts  denned 
against  the  sky.  He  pulled  on  until  they  lay  abreast  of  her. 
There  was  no  sound  on  board,  and  there  were  no  lights  to  be 
seen.  She  was  out  of  the  track  of  all  passing  craft,  and,  so  far 
as  the  reconnoiterers  could  judge,  the  men  on  board  had 
turned  in  and  gone  to  sleep. 

They  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  and  then  they  heard  a 
movement.  Then  against  the  moonlight  that  flooded  the 
western  water  and  the  western  sky,  they  saw  three  or  four 
figures  rise  and  slowly  disappear.  Soon  they  heard  the  sound 
of  oars,  and  after  a  few  minutes,  a  black  speck  showed  itself 
out  upon  the  gleaming  water,  moving  away  from  them  toward 
a  village  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river. 

"  Turn  about  and  row  back,  Pont,"  said  Nicholas. 

The  command  was  silently  obeyed,  and  when  Nicholas 
reached  his  house,  he  found  Mrs.  Fleming  awaiting  his  return, 
just  where  he  had  left  her. 

"What  did  thee  find,  Nicholas  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  We  found  a  schooner  and  saw  her  men  leave  her.  They 
are  probably  a  lot  of  shirks,  who  have  run  in  here  to  get  out  of 
sight,  and  thus  to  secure  an  opportunity  for  a  debauch  on 
shore.  I  don't  think  we  have  anything  to  fear  from  them." 

Although  they  all  went  nervous  and  indefinitely  apprehensive 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  127 

to  bed,  they  passed  the  night  without  disturbance ;  but  the  next 
day,  while  the  village  lawyer  and  Nicholas  were  reviewing  their 
work,  in  a  state  of  profound  absorption,  they  were  conscious  of 
a  movement  near  them,  and  looking  up,  saw,  observing  them 
with  wicked  black  eyes,  a  middle-aged,  rough-looking  man,  who 
had  entered  the  house  unbidden  and  unheralded. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  scraping  his  right 
foot  and  placing  his  hat  under  his  arm,  "  but  would  you  be 
kind  enough  to  give  a  poor  fellow  a  trifle  to  get  to  New  York  ? 
I  was  put  off  the  train  here,  for  the  lack  of  the  needful,  you 
know." 

The  safe  stood  open  by  the  side  of  Nicholas,  revealing  its 
valuable  contents.  It  was  too  late  to  shut  it,  but  Nicholas  im- 
pulsively rose,  closed  and  locked  it,  and  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing.  The  motion  was 
watched  with  evident  interest  by  the  intruder. 

The  appeal  of  the  tramp  was  humbly  enough  made,  but  both 
Nicholas  and  his  companion  instinctively  recognized  its  insin- 
cerity, and  felt  sure  that  he  was  a  spy. 

"What  business  have  you  in  this  house,  you  dirty  dog?" 
said  Nicholas,  his  anger  rising  the  moment  he  began  to  speak. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  look  as  if  I  had  any,"  replied  the  man 
sullenly,  "  and  it's  very  well  for  you  with  your  money  and  your 
fine  house  to  call  a  poor  fellow  like  me  a  dirty  dog,  but  I 
haven't  cribbed  anything,  have  I  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  There  are  two  of  you  :  you'd  better  go  through  me." 

The  man's  eyes  flashed  as  he  said  this,  and  he  gave  a  hitch 
to  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  as  if  he  would  like  to  have  them  try 
it. 

"Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold,  "you  had  better  leave 
town  the  first  chance  that  you  can  get,  or  I'll  have  you  arrested 
for  a  vagrant." 

"  1  shall  leave  town  when  I  get  ready,  and  I  shall  leave  this 
house  when  I  get  ready,  too.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  put  mo 
out  now,  come  ! " 


128  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

The  fellow  had  hardly  time  to  complete  his  menace  when 
Nicholas  leaped  to  his  feet,  grasped  the  man's  collar,  wheeled 
him  about,  and  taking  him  by  his  shoulders,  pushed  him,  vio- 
lently resisting,  out  of  the  room,  through  the  hall,  and  down  the 
steps.  The  rascal  had  dropped  his  hat  at  the  door,  and  this 
Nicholas  tossed  after  him. 

He  was  in  a  great  rage  and  started  to  come  back,  but  he  had 
felt  the  force  of  the  young  muscles,  and  saw  that  Nicholas  in 
the  door-way  had  him  at  a  disadvantage. 

"  You  are  a  smart  boy,  you  are,"  he  growled  huskily,  "  but 
I'll  get  you  in  a  tight  place,  yet !  Never  you  mind !  I'll  have 
it  out  of  you — if  I  ever  catch  you  anywhere,"  he  prudently 
added. 

Nicholas  laughed  at  him,  and  he  seemed  reluctant  to  go 
away,  but  at  last  he  went  off,  growling  and  threatening,  and 
talking  to  himself.  Nicholas  stood  in  the  door  and  watched 
him  until  he  passed  out  of  sight.  The  man's  features,  his 
figure,  his  gait,  his  voice,  were  as  thoroughly  impressed  upon 
his  memory  as  if  he  had  known  him  from  boyhood. 

Before  Nicholas  closed  the  door  and  locked  it  against  further 
intrusion,  he  called  for  Pont.  When  the  negro  appeared, 
Nicholas  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  the  tramp.  He  replied  that 
he  had. 

"  Then,"  said  Nicholas,  "  take  the  short  cut  to  the  station ; 
get  there  before  him,  and  see  what  he  does  with  himself." 

Pont  started  upon  a  run,  and  soon  disappeared  behind  the 
shrubbery.  Then  Nicholas  went  back  laughing  to  the  lawyer, 
whom  he  found  very  much  disturbed. 

"  I  don't  like  this,"  said  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold.  "  You  have 
provoked  the  man's  ill-will,  and  if  I  haven't  mistaken  his  char- 
acter, he  would  murder  you  as  readily  and  remorselessly  as  he 
would  eat  a  dinner.  I  don't  like  it.  It's  a  bad  thing." 

"  Well,  it  is  done,  and  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  It's  a  bad  thing,"  the  lawyer  repeated.  "  He  has  seen 
everything,  and  you  must  let  me  take  all  these  papers  back  to 
my  office  to-night." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  129 

Nicholas  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  thought  of  the  schooner. 
In  the  absorption  of  the  morning  it  had  gone  out  of  his  mind, 
and  he  rose  and  walked  out  upon  the  piazza.  There  was  no 
schooner  in  sight,  and  she  had  probably  left  during  the  night. 
The  fact  relieved  him. 

An  hour  afterward,  Pont  returned  with  the  information  that 
the  supposed  tramp,  instead  of  going  to  the  station,  went 
directly  to  the  river,  where  a  boat  with  a  single  occupant 
awaited  him.  Then  he  coolly  took  off  his  coat,  sat  down  in  the 
boat,  and,  together,  the  two  men  pulled  straight  across  the 
stream  into  a  cove,  and  disappeared. 

The  fact  was  not  calculated  to  reassure  Nicholas  or  his  law- 
yer. Neither  was  surprised  by  the  news,  but  both  had  hoped 
the  fellow  would  go  away. 

When  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold  left  the  house  that  evening,  he  took 
all  his  books  and  papers  with  him  ;  but  nothing  happened 
during  the  night  to  justify  his  fears,  and  several  days  and  nights 
passed  away  without  disturbance,  until  the  threat  of  the  ruf- 
fianly intruder  had  ceased  to  be  thought  of,  and  life  at  the  man- 
sion went  on  in  its  usual  quiet  course. 
6* 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  WHICH    THE    STRANGE  SCHOONER  MAKES    HER  LAST  APPEAR- 
ANCE, AND  THE  TRAMP  CALLS  AGAIN. 

AFTER  all  the  excitement  through  which  Nicholas  had  passed, 
it  could  not  have  been  expected  that  he  would  settle  down 
contentedly  to  the  old  life  that  was  once  so  dear  to  him.  He 
felt  himself  becoming  uneasy.  He  had  grown  familiar  with  his 
affairs,  and  while  the  examination  into  them  lasted,  his  mind 
was  occupied.  When  the  interest  connected  with  this  had  died 
away,  it  reached  out  for  something  more  to  do.  He  devised 
improvements  here  and  there  upon  his  place.  He  superin- 
tended his  workmen,  or  roamed  over  his  estate,  or  engaged 
himself  in  reading,  and  at  last  he  began  to  learn  that  it  was  less 
his  mind  than  his  heart  that  was  hungry. 

The  beautiful  invalid  with  whom  he  had  been  thrown  into 
such  strange  associations  presented  herself  more — and  still  more 
— frequently  before  his  imagination.  If  he  sat  upon  the  piazza, 
he  found  the  ocean  steamer  reproduced  in  every  passing  vessel, 
and  beheld  her  reclining  in  her  well-remembered  attitude  upon 
the  deck.  Every  book  he  read  was  illustrated  by  his  fancy 
with  pictures  of  which  she  was  always  the  central  figure.  He 
thought  of  her  as  an  occupant  of  his  home,  and  dreamed  of  the 
sweetness  with  which  she  would  endow  it.  He  thought  of  him- 
self as  her  husband,  not  only,  but  as  the  ministering  servant  to 
her  helplessness.  He  found  his  heart  constantly  rebelling 
against  the  statement  of  Mr.  Benson,  that  marriage  with  her 
was  "  out  of  the  question." 

Yet  he  did  not  dare  to  love  her.  He  knew  that  she  liked 
him.  He  knew  that  she  was  profoundly  grateful  to  him.  He 
felt  that  she  would  sacrifice  anything  to  show  her  appreciation 
of  him  and  of  his  service  to  her,  but  he  had  apprehended  some 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  131 

thing  in  her  beyond  this,  and  he  was  surprised  to  learn  how 
keen  a  pang  the  apprehension  caused  him.  He  knew  that  he 
never  could  have  come  to  this  apprehension  had  it  not  been 
through  the  subtle  stimulus  which  her  own  magnetic  nature  and 
character  had  exercised  upon  him, — the  apprehension  that  she 
would  never  permit  him  to  sacrifice  himself  to  her.  He  felt 
that  if  there  were  anything  in  him  that  could  inspire  her  heart 
with  love,  the  measure  of  that  love  would  be  the  measure  of 
her  determination  never  to  bind  his  hands  in  service  to  one  who 
could  not  help,  but  would  only  hinder  him. 

He  found  himself  longing,  too,  for  sympathy.  He  could  not 
unveil  his  heart  to  a  man.  If  his  mother  had  been  alive 
he  would  have  spoken  all  his  thoughts  to  her  and  rejoiced 
in  the  privilege  ;  but  he  recoiled  from  speaking  a  word,  even 
to  his  friend  Glezen.  Glezen  would  only  say  to  him  :  "  Well, 
my  boy,  if  you  want  her,  go  in  and  win."  His  friend  could  not 
possibly  sympathize  with  his  experiences  and  apprehensions,  or 
comprehend  the  depth  and  delicacy  of  his  sentiment ;  and  it 
would  be  profanation  to  reveal  them  to  one  who  would  look 
upon  them  only  with  the  eye  of  a  practical  business  man. 

So  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  delightful  relief  that  he  heard  good 
Mrs.  Fleming  say  to  him  one  evening,  while  they  were  sitting 
together  over  their  tea  : 

"  Nicholas,  thee  has  something  on  thy  mind.  May  I  share 
it  with  thee  ?  " 

Nicholas  did  not  blush.  He  did  not  hesitate.  He  knew 
that  a  woman  could  comprehend  what  a  man  could  not,  and 
he  opened  his  whole  heart  to  her.  He  told  her  of  a  thousand 
things  he  had  hidden  from  her  sight, — of  Miss  Larkin's  help- 
lessness, of  her  sweetness,  of  her  power  to  move  and  elevate 
himself,  and  of  the  delightful  possibilities  which  she  had  opened 
to  his  thought.  He  was  tender  and  enthusiastic.  A  boy  of 
fifteen  would  not  have  been  more  so,  or  more  confiding  and 
unreserved. 

Mrs.  Fleming  listened  to  him  with  the  calm  and  sympathetic 
smile  of  one  who  had  had  a  sweet  experience  of  her  own,  and 


13*  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

who  took  a  profound  satisfaction  in  being  so  frankly  trusted.  If 
she  had  not  loved  Nicholas  before,  she  would  have  loved  him 
then.  He  had  paid  to  her  the  most  grateful  tribute  that  man 
can  pay  to  womanhood — a  tribute  to  the  wisdom  of  her  heart. 

"  I  thank  thee,  Nicholas,  for  this,"  she  said,  and  rising  she 
went  to  him,  and  bending  over  him  as  he  sat,  kissed  his  fore- 
head. She  had  not  kissed  him  before,  since  he  was  a  boy.  The 
spirit  of  the  boy  had  moved  her. 

Resuming  her  seat,  she  said  : 

"Thee  must  follow  the  inner  light,  Nicholas.  Thee  must 
not  enter  into  calculations,  nor  weigh  hinderances  and  advan- 
tages. The  Spirit  cannot  speak  by  the  voice  of  human  wis- 
dom, for  that  is  full  of  all  selfish  mixtures.  The  pure  in  heart 
not  only  see  God,  but  they  feel  God,  and  hear  him.  It  is 
the  heart  that  hears  the  voice  which  guides  aright ;  and  if  thy 
heart  is  pure, — and  I  believe  it  is, — and  if  thee  has  heard  a 
voice  in  it  that  bids  thee  love  some  one  who  is  pure  and  lovely, 
then  listen  to  it  and  obey  it.  No  harm  can  come  of  it.  It 
may  bring  thee  trial,  but  it  can  never  injure  thee.  There  are 
many  paths  that  lead  to  the  best  that  God  has  for  us.  Some 
of  them  are  in  the  sun,  and  some  of  them  in  shadow ;  but  so 
long  as  thee  takes  counsel  of  thy  heart,  and  the  light  within  is 
bright,  thee  has  nothing  to  fear  and  all  good  things  to  hope  for." 

Her  words  were  balm  and  inspiration  to  the  young  man,  and 
they  left  him  more  desirous  than  ever  to  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  girl  whose  history,  as  it  related  to  himself,  had 
called  them  forth.  He  determined  to  visit  New  York,  but 
he  would  at  least  have  a  business  errand.  He  would  take 
down  the  unregistered  bonds,  and  perfect  the  arrangements  re- 
lating to  them,  and,  among  his  new  friends,  he  would  see  Miss 
Larkin  again. 

He  therefore  fixed  upon  an  early  day  for  the  visit,  and  on  the 
afternoon  previous  to  his  departure,  drove  over  to  Mr.  Bellamy 
Gold's  office,  and  receiving  the  package  he  desired,  drove  back 
again.  He  placed  his  bonds  in  the  safe,  locked  them  in,  and, 
according  to  his  custom,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURtf.  133 

The  night  came  down  dark  and  gloomy,  and  the  thickening 
sky  gave  signs  of  an  approaching  storm.  The  sun  had  set  be 
hind  a  curtain  of  heavy  clouds  that  skirted  the  western  hori- 
zon, fringed  with  thunder-heads  that  loomed  above  the  mass 
like  Alpine  summits.  Behind  these  the  lightning  played  inces- 
santly as  twilight  deepened  into  night.  Everything  seemed 
preternaturally  still — not  a  leaf  stirred  in  the  breathless  air. 

Throughout  the  brief  evening,  Mrs.  Fleming  and  Nicholas 
sat  together,  saying  little,  watching  the  lightning  as  the  distant 
cloud  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  hoping  that  the  storm  would 
make  its  onset  before  the  hour  of  bed-time  should  bid  them 
separate  for  the  night. 

But  the  center  of  the  storm  was  far  away,  and  was  slow  in 
its  approaches.  Weary  at  last  with  waiting,  and  drowsy  after 
the  fatigues  of  the  day,  they  closed  the  shutters  and  retired  to 
their  rooms,  where  both  lingered  for  half  an  hour,  fascinated 
by  the  freaks  of  the  lightning  as  it  thridded  the  lazily  rising 
clouds ;  and  then  they  went  to  bed. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  tempest  burst  upon  Ottercliff, 
and  both  Nicholas  and  Mrs.  Fleming  were  in  their  first  sleep. 
Nicholas  was  a  sound  sleeper,  and  the  play  of  the  lightning, 
the  rush  of  the  tempest  and  the  roar  of  the  thunder  became 
the  elements  of  a  boisterous  dream.  He  dreamed  of  the 
strange  schooner.  He  heard  the  flap  of  her  canvas,  and  the 
noise  of  the  waves  beating  against  the  shore.  He  saw  her 
deck  swarming  with  villainous  forms,  and  among  them  he  rec- 
ognized that  of  the  tramp,  whom  he  had  so  recently  repulsed 
from  his  house.  He  was  sufficiently  awake  to  know  that  the 
expected  storm  was  passing  in  its  fury,  and  sufficiently  asleep 
to  fit  its  tumultuous  sounds  into  the  fanciful  scheme  of  his 
dream. 

The  lightning  would  not  have  awakened  him,  but  he  some- 
how became  conscious  of  the  presence  of  a  steady  light.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  saw  three  men  at  his  side.  One  held  a 
pistol  to  his  head  and  told  him  that  if  he  raised  a  hand  k« 
would  blow  his  brains  out. 


i34  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

The  men  were  masked  and  understood  their  brutal  business , 
and  Nicholas  readily  comprehended  the  fact  that  he  was  in  their 
power.  It  was  useless  to  call,  for  no  one  Could  help  him.  It 
was  vain  to  straggle,  for  he  was  not  a  match  for  them. 

"  Men,  you  will  have  your  way,  I  suppose,"  said  Nicholas, 
"and  all  I  ask  of  you  is  that  you  will  not  disturb  the  lady. 
She  cannot  harm  you,  for  she  is  feeble  and  old.  I  suppose 
you  have  all  had  a  mother,  and  you  must  owe  something  to 
her  memory." 

The  return  for  this  speech  was  a  harsh  slap  upon  the  mouth, 
and  an  order  to  turn  in  his  bed,  that  his  hands  might  be  tied 
behind  him.  They  then  lashed  his  hands  and  his  feet  together, 
gagged  him,  and  leaving  a  man  to  watch  him,  searched  his  pock- 
ets, and  went  off  down-stairs. 

"  I  told  you  I'd  have  it  out  of  you,"  said  the  man,  huskily, 
•who  stood  at  his  side.  "  You  are  a  smart  boy,  you  are,  but  we 
are  too  many  for  you  this  time." 

Nicholas  would  have  been  at  no  loss  to  recognize  his  keeper, 
even  if  he  had  not  betrayed  himself  in  his  language.  He  could 
have  sworn  to  the  brutal,  husky  voice,  whatever  words  it  might 
have  uttered. 

Between  the  explosions  of  profane  abuse  with  which  the 
villain  poured  forth  his  revengeful  spleen,  Nicholas  lay  help- 
lessly, and  heard  the  confederates  going  from  room  to  room, 
opening  doors  and  drawers,  and  talking  in  low  tones ;  and 
he  knew  that  the  house  and  all  its  treasures  were  in  their 
hands.  They  could  murder  him  and  burn  the  dwelling  that 
covered  him.  They  could  and  would  carry  away  all  that  their 
greedy  hands  could  bear,  and  do  it  in  perfect  safety  at  their 
leisure. 

His  confinement  became  agony  at  last,  and  then  he  heard  a 
low  whistle  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

"The  game's  played,"  said  the  husky  voice  at  his  side. 
"  You've  been  a  nice  boy — you  have.  Pleasant  dreams  to  ye 
and  a  breakfast  without  silver.  Bye-bye." 

Nicholas  heard  the  man  descend  the  stairs,  then  the  clink  of 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  135 

metal  as  the  robbers  shouldered  their  burdens,  and,  at  last,  their 
heavy  tramp  upon  the  ground  as  they  moved  off. 

There  were  other  ears  that  heard  it  all,  and  in  a  moment, 
Mrs.  Fleming,  white  and  shaking  with  terror,  entered  his  room. 
To  undo  his  fastenings  was  the  work  of  a  few  minutss,  but 
Nicholas  found  himself  too  much  exhausted  to  six.  up  in  his  bed. 
Mrs.  Fleming  had  locked  her  door  on  the  first  consciousness 
that  the  house  had  been  entered,  and  though  it  was  carefully 
tried,  no  violence  had  been  offered  to  it.  She  had  heard  the 
words,  "  That's  the  old  woman's  room,  I  reckon,  and  we  must 
remember  our  mothers ; "  and  this  was  followed  by  a  low  laugh, 
and  retreating  footsteps. 

Mrs.  Fleming  brought  Nicholas  a  cordial,  and,  after  an  hour, 
he  tottered  to  his  feet,  and  dressed  himself.  Then  they  found 
Pont,  who  had  slept  through  storm  and  invasion,  in  his  distant 
room,  and  all  descended  to  the  scene  of  the  robbery.  The 
burglars  had  entered  by  a  window  opening  like  a  door  from 
the  piazza,  and  the  damp  night  wind  was  passing  through  it 
into  the  house.  They  closed  the  window  and  then  began  to 
examine  into  the  extent  of  the  spoliation. 

They  first  visited  the  safe.  It  was  open,  and  the  key,  which 
Nicholas  had  placed  in  his  pocket  on  returning  with  his  bonds 
the  previous  afternoon,  was  in  the  lock.  As  he  anticipated, 
i,ot  only  the  plate  was  gone,  but  the  bonds  were  missing  also, 
mnd  these  covered  a  far  greater  value  than  everything  else  that 
they  could  have  borne  away.  After  ascertaining  the  loss  of 
these,  Nicholas  had  no  curiosity  with  regard  to  the  remainder 
of  the  booty.  Daylight  would  better  reveal  the  minor  particu- 
lars, and  for  this  it  was  agreed  to  wait.  They  would  not  go  to 
bed  again ;  and  Pont  was  consigned  to  a  lounge  and  ordered  to 
wait  with  them. 

Nicholas  went  to  the  window  and  peered  out  into  the  night, 
which  was  rapidly  approaching  a  new  day.  Exactly  in  the  place 
where  the  schooner  had  come  to  anchor  ten  days  before,  he  saw 
a  light.  While  he  watched  it,  it  slowly  moved  out  across  the 
stream  and  disappeared.  The  river  pirates  had  done  their  dark 


136  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

work,  won  their  plunder  and  flown,  leaving  no  clew  behind  them 
but  the  memory  of  the  villain  whom  Nicholas  had  once  thrust 
from  the  house,  and  who  had  returned  in  the  character  of  his 
captor  and  keeper. 

Pont  was  soon  asleep,  and  Nicholas  and  Mrs.  Fleming,  sit- 
ting close  beside  each  other  and  engaging  in  low  conversation, 
watched  until  the  brightest  and  sweetest  of  summer  mornings 
dawned  upon  them ;  and  then  they  slowly  and  regretfully  counted 
up  their  losses. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHICH  GIVES  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  VISIT  OF   NICHOLAS  1O   NEW 

YORK,  AND  HIS  INTERESTING   INTERVIEW   WITH 

THREE   YOUNG    LADIES. 

GREAT  was  the  excitement  in  Ottercliff  when  it  was  noised 
abroad  that  the  Minturn  mansion  had  been  broken  into  and 
plundered  of  its  treasures.  All  who  could  leave  their  work 
swarmed  to  the  house,  entered  it,  looked  it  all  through  and 
all  over,  hung  about  it,  and  wearied  its  occupants  with  their 
inspection  and  their  inquiries.  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold  was  one  of 
the  first  visitors,  and  was  profoundly  dismayed  on  finding  that 
his  record  of  the  numbers  of  the  stolen  bonds,  which  he  had 
carefully  made,  had  disappeared.  This  he  had  learned  by 
going  back  to  his  office.  He  had  once  shown  the  record  to 
Nicholas,  but  when  the  latter  received  the  bonds,  he  had  not 
delivered  it  to  him.  He  had  rummaged  every  pigeon-hole, 
looked  between  the  leaves  of  his  account-books,  turned  his 
pockets  inside  out,  and  searched  all  the  drawers  in  his  office, 
with  no  result  but  the  conviction  that  the  means  were  gone  for 
stopping  the  sale  of  the  bonds  and  the  payment  of  their 
coupons. 

This  was  the  heaviest  blow  of  all  to  the  little  lawyer.  He 
felt  that  his  professional  honor  was  at  stake,  or,  rather,  his  pro- 
fessional trustworthiness.  If  he  had  the  record,  he  could  make 
the  bonds  useless  to  the  hands  that  held  them,  and  ultimately 
compel  their  return  at  his  own  price.  Without  it,  he  was  help- 
less ;  and  the  bonds  could  be  negotiated  through  the  lines  of 
roguery  that  run  very  high  up  toward  the  respectability  of  Wall 
street. 

Nicholas  found  the  robbery  a  violent  interference  with  his 
plans,  as  well  as  a  most  unwelcome  interruption  of  his  thoughts. 


138  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

He  had  anticipated  his  absence  from  home  and  his  visit  to  the 
city  with  keen  delight,  and  several  days  passed  away  before  he 
could  bring  his  mind  into  its  old  channel,  and  up  to  its  old  pur- 
pose ;  but,  as  it  had  become  necessary  to  replace  many  of  the 
articles  that  had  been  stolen,  and  it  seemed  desirable  to  consult 
with  others  besides  Mr.  Gold,  in  regard  to  measures  for  procur- 
ing a  return  of  the  missing  bonds,  he  engaged  a  watch  for  his 
house  and  set  off. 

While  on  his  way  the  promise  of  Mr.  Benson  to  give  him 
advice  whenever  he  should  have  occasion  for  it,  came  into  his 
mind.  He  despised  the  man,  but  he  had  no  quarrel  with  him. 
He  knew  that  his  heart  was  hollow,  but  he  knew  also  that  his 
brain  was  keen  and  wise.  If  the  whole  truth  must  be  told,  he 
desired  to  have  a  matter  of  business  with  Mr.  Benson.  He 
wished  to  be  received  at  his  house  in  a  friendly  way.  He  dep- 
recated his  enmity,  at  least,  as  well  as  any  relation  with  him 
which  would  throw  obstacles  in  the  path  of  his  friendship  for 
his  ward.  So  Nicholas  determined  to  tell  him  frankly  of  his 
losses,  and  to  ask  him  for  his  counsel. 

On  arriving  at  the  city,  and  taking  a  room  at  a  convenient 
hotel,  he  went,  without  calling  upon  Glezen,  directly  to  Mr. 
Benson's  house.  Mr.  Benson,  for  whom  he  first  inquired,  was 
out  and  would  not  return  until  evening.  Then  he  sent  his 
card  to  Miss  Larkin,  who  responded  with  a  message  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  see  him  in  her  parlor. 

As  he  entered  the  lovely  apartment,  his  heart  warmed  with  a 
strange,  delicious  joy.  Everything  spoke  alike  of  happy  repose 
and  tasteful  activity.  The  shelves  of  handsome  books,  the 
well-chosen  pictures  on  the  walls,  the  records  of  ingenious 
needle-work  on  chairs  and  ottomans,  the  bouquets  of  freshly 
gathered  roses,  the  harmonious  adjustments  of  form  and  color, 
and  the  one  sweet  life  and  beautiful  face  and  figure  of  her  who 
had  gathered  and  arranged  all,  and  given  to  them  their  signifi- 
cance, exercised  upon  him  the  charm  of  a  rare  poem.  His 
heart,  his  life,  his  tastes,  felt  themselves  at  home.  He  would 
have  been  quite  content,  if  any  necessity  had  imposed  silence 

\ 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  139 

upon  him,  to  sit  all  day  in  the  presence  and  atmosphere  in 
which  he  found  himself,  without  speaking  a  word. 

Miss  Larkin  sat — half  reclining — upon  a  low  divan,  and,  with- 
out attempting  to  rise,  extended  her  hand  to  Nicholas  as  he 
entered,  and  greeted  him  with  hearty  words  and  a  hearty  smile. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you  at  the  very  moment  you  rang  the 
bell,"  she  said.  "  It  seems  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you ; 
and  I  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  you  had  forgotten  us  all." 

"I  can  never  forget  you,"  said  Nicholas,  bluntly. 

"  You  have  a  tenacious  memory,  I  suppose  ? "  said  Miss 
Larkin,  with  mirthful,  questioning  eyes. 

"  Yes,  very." 

Nicholas  felt  himself  growing  rigid.  He  could  not  look  at 
her.  The  temptation  to  fall  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  press 
her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  pour  out  to  her  the  flood  of  tender 
passion  rising  in  his  heart,  seemed  too  great  to  be  resisted.  He 
had  hungered  for  her,  thirsted  for  her,  longed  to  be  beside  her 
once  more,  felt  d^awn  toward  her  by  attractions  more  subtle 
and  powerful  than  those  which  invite  the  steel  to  the  magnet, 
and  borne  about  with  him,  through  all  the  days  of  his  separa- 
tion from  her,  a  sense  of  exigency. 

It  was  enough,  or  he  had  felt  all  along  that  it  would  be 
enough,  to  be  in  her  presence.  He  had  been  like  a  wanderer 
in  a  wilderness,  longing  for  a  cool  spring  at  which  to  quench 
his  thirst, — longing  to  sit  down  beneath  its  sheltering  trees  for 
rest.  He  had  not  dared  to  dream  of  offering  his  heart  and  life 
to  her,  and  he  felt  himself  taken  at  a  disadvantage. 

Miss  Larkin,  with  her  keen  instincts,  read  the  nature  of  the 
struggle  through  which  he  was  passing.  She  had  not  intended, 
with  her  single  touch  of  playful  raillery,  to  invite  him  to  more 
than  he  had  sought.  So  she  adroitly  tried  to  change  the  cur- 
rent of  conversation,  and  divert  him  from  his  thoughts. 

"  We  have  passed  through  a  great  deal  of  trouble  since  our 
return,"  she  said.  "You  have  had  your  share,  of  which  I  have 
heard,  and  I  have  had  mine,  of  which  you  can  have  known 
nothing." 


140  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  Nicholas  responded  : 

"You  refer  to  our  little  home  tragedy,  I  suppose.  It  cost 
me  nothing  but  money,  so  I  don't  mind  it.  Have  you  anything 
to  tell  me  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  much,"  she  replied.  "  There  has  been  a  single 
scene  in  this  room,  on  the  return  of  Mr.  Benson,  of  which  I 
may  only  speak  to  you.  It  was  nothing  but  what  I  foresaw. 
The  man  is  changed,  and  not  for  the  better.  He  is  winning 
back  daily  his  old  hauteur  and  his  old  self-possession.  I 
promised  that  I  would  not  betray  him,  and  he  knows  that  I  will 
keep  my  promise.  He  would  secure  the  same  promise  of  you, 
or  try  to  secure  it,  if  he  did  not  believe  that  I  would  do  it  for 
him.  I  simply  told  him  that  I  did  not  think  you  would  displease 
me  by  betraying  him,  and  further  than  this  I  shall  not  go,  either 
with  you  or  with  him.  I  know  that  the  consciousness  that  he 
is  in  our  hands  galls  him  to  the  quick, — that  he  frets  under  it, 
and  quarrels  with  it,  and  that  he  can  never  love  either  of  us. 
I  hope  he  cannot  harm  you,  but  he  can  make  life  very  uncom- 
fortable to  me  if  he  chooses  to  do  so." 

"  Then  I  swear,"  said  Nicholas,  rising  from  his  chair,  his  face 
flushing  with  angry  color,  "  I  will  never  pledge  myself  not  to 
betray  him,  either  to  you  or  to  him.  I  see  it  all.  He  will  trust 
to  your  truthfulness  and  mine,  if  he  can  get  the  promise  of  us 
both,  and  ride  over  our  wills  as  he  rides  over  the  wills  of  others. 
You  may  make  no  promise  for  me,  for  if  I  find  that  he  is 
oppressive  or  unfair  to  you,  I  will  break  it." 

The  thought  that  a  man  could  be  so  base  as  to  take  the 
advantage  of  a  helpless  woman's  word  of  honor  to  distress  her 
in  any  way,  or  to  impose  upon  the  world  around  him,  raised 
his  indignation  beyond  the  point  of  continence. 

Miss  Larkin  was  not  shocked.  She  was  neither  grieved  noi 
angered  at  this  impulsive  declaration  of  independence.  She 
found  her  will  strangely  acquiescing  with  a  decision  which  she 
felt  ought  to  have  offended  her,  and  by  that  token  saw  how 
easily  she  could  identify  her  life  with  his.  The  just  man  had 
spoken,  moved  by  an  honest  sympathy  for  her ;  and  her  aduiira- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  141 

tion  and  respect  for  him  had  been  augmented.  But  Nicholas 
felt  that  he  had  been  impulsive  and  rash,  if  not  vindictive  and 
harsh ;  so,  relapsing  from  his  mood,  and  resuming  his  chair,  he 
said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Larkin.  I  hope  I  haven't  offended 
you.  I  am  not  used  to  dealing  with  designing  men,  and  this 
man  makes  me  wild.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  did  not  know 
there  were  any  such  men  in  the  world ;  but  now  that  I  do  know 
it,  I  should  despise  myself  if,  for  the  worthless  sake  of  one  of 
them,  I  were  to  place  my  friends  and  myself  in  his  hands.  I  am 
sure  you  will  forgive  me." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  What  you  have  said  seems 
right,"  she  answered.  "You  must  remember,  however,  that 
you  can  do  what  I  cannot  do.  You  are  not  in  Mr.  Benson's 
hands,  as  I  am." 

"Very  well,"  Nicholas  responded,  "  if  Mr.  Benson  asks  you 
to  promise  anything  for  me,  you  can  only  tell  him  that  you  can- 
not answer  for  me.  I  had  intended  to  see  him,  and  ask  his 
advice  on  a  matter  of  business,  as  he  once  invited  me  to  do, 
but  I  am  tempted  to  go  away  without  seeing  him  at  all." 

"  I  would  not  do  that,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  "for  you  have  in- 
quired for  him,  and  it  may  arouse  his  suspicions  and  make 
another  scene  between  him  and  myself;  and  this  I  know  you 
will  help  me  to  avert.  Let's  talk  no  more  about  it.  Please 
tell  me  how  you  are  passing  your  time.  I  see  so  little  of  the 
outside  world  that  any  living  breath  from  its  affairs  refreshes 
me." 

Here  was  a  grateful  invitation  to  confidence,  and  the  heart 
of  Nicholas  opened  to  it  at  once.  It  was  delightful  to  sit  at 
Miss  Larkin' s  side,  to  watch  her  kindling  eyes  and  earnest  face 
as  he  unfolded  his  changing  plans  of  life  to  her,  and  recounted 
his  new  industries  and  his  new  responsibilities.  It  repaid  him 
for  all  his  trouble  to  find  that  his  manly  aims  and  employments 
pleased  her,  and  that  she  was  sufficiently  interested  in  him 
to  care  for  the  details  of  his  pursuits  and  to  sympathize  in  hii 
purposes. 


142  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  I  am  greatly  interested  in  what  you  have  told  me,"  Miss 
Larkin  said,  as  Nicholas  concluded.  "  1  cannot  tell  you  how 
much  you  gratify  me." 

Nicholas  smiled  and  blushed  as  he  responded : 

"  Now  perhaps  you  can  inform  me  why  it  is  that  I  am  so 
glad  to  tell  you  all  this,  and  receive  your  approval.  I  am  as 
much  pleased  as  a  child  who  has  had  a  pat  on  the  head  for 
being  good." 

"  I  am  so  much  the  person  obliged  that  I  cannot  tell  you," 
she  answered.  "  The  confidence  you  have  reposed  in  me 
and  your  willingness  to  entertain  me  make  me  so  much  your 
debtor  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  understand  your  question." 

"  Well,  I've  heard,"  said  Nicholas  smiling,  "  that  young  men 
of  my  own  age  and  circumstances  look  upon  me  as  a  sort  of 
milksop.  They  would  probably  regard  what  I  feel  bound  to 
say  as  confirmation  of  their  opinion,  but  to  me  a  woman  has 
always  been  a  kind  of  second  conscience.  In  truth,  I  never 
feel  quite  so  sure  of  my  own  conscience  as  I  do  of  her  instincts 
and  her  judgment.  I  ask  for  no  better  reward  for  work,  and 
seek  for  no  higher  approval  of  my  conduct,  than  her  praise. 
It  satisfies  me,  and  it  makes  me  strong.  To  be  recognized 
by  her  as  a  true  man,  and  to  secure  her  approbation  for  my 
course  of  life,  is,  it  seems  to  me,  to  be  indorsed  by  the  best 
authority  there  is  in  the  world.  Women  may  not  be  good 
judges  of  women,  because  their  instincts  are  not  so  keen  with 
regard  to  their  own  sex  as  to  ours.  Though  a  good  woman 
may  not  read  herself  very  clearly,  she  sees  what  she  lacks,  and 
recognizes  the  complement  to  herself,  which  she  finds  in  the 
man  whom  she  approves.  If  she  is  good,  and  approves  a 
man,  it  simply  shows  that  she  recognizes  that  which  complete? 
herself." 

Miss  Larkin  blushed,  and  knew  that  Nicholas  did  not  see, 
at  the  moment,  how  readily  she  could  personally  appropriate 
what  he  had  said ;  but  she  was  pleased. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  capable  of  such  suntleties," 
she  responded. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  143 

"  I  was  thinking  about  my  mother  and  Mrs.  Fleming,"  said 
Nicholas. 

"  Oh  !  I  see  !  " 

And  then  they  both  laughed. 

"  Now  tell  me  about  your  associates,"  Miss  Larkin  said. 

"  I  have  none." 

"  Does  Ottercliff  give  you  no  society  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  care  for." 

"  You  will  not  be  able  to  live  there,  then." 

"  That  is  what  troubles  me.  The  summer  is  well  enough, 
but  I  see  now  that  I  can  never  be  held  to  my  house  all  the 
winter.  I  should  die  of  ennui." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  shall  spend  the  winter  here." 

Nicholas  could  but  notice  the  flush  of  pleasure  that  over- 
spread his  companion's  face  as  she  inquired  : 

"  And  what  will  you  do  here  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  Glezen  and  I  had  a  little 
talk  when  I  first  returned  about  the  poor  here,  and  I  fancied 
that  I  might  make  myself  of  some  use  to  them.  I  became  very 
much  interested  in  a  poor  man  who  called  at  his  office,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  might  keep  myself  out  of  mischief,  per- 
haps, by  looking  after  such  fellows,  and  helping  them  along." 

"  Why,  that  will  be  delightful !  "  said  Miss  Larkin  ;  "  and  you 
can  report  your  work  to  me,  and  perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

At  this  moment  a  rap  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  the  servant 
announced  Miss  Coates  and  Miss  Pelton.  The  young  woman 
evidently  felt  embarrassed  at  being  found  with  Nicholas,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  she  directed  that  they  should  be 
shown  to  her  parlor. 

Nicholas  gave  her  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"  They  have  not  come  together,"  said  Miss  Larkin.  "They 
have  accidentally  met  at  the  door.  Both  have  called  upon  me 
frequently  since  our  return." 

The  young  ladies  entered,  and  were  received  with  a  hearty 
greeting  by  the  two  friends.  Miss  Larkin  was  visited  by  a 


144  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

good  many  significant  and  smiling  glances,  and  Nicholas  was 
rallied  upon  his  forgetfulness  and  partiality.  Amid  blushes 
that  he  could  not  suppress,  he  assured  them  that  he  intended 
to  call  upon  all  his  friends  before  returning  home. 

"I  have  some  good  news  to  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Larkin  to 
the  young  ladies. 

"  Oh,  let  us  hear  it ! "  exclaimed  the  pair  in  unison. 

"  Mr.  Minturn  is  to  spend  the  winter  in  the  city." 

"That  will  be  charming!"  exclaimed  Miss  Pelton,  who  as- 
sumed the  role  of  superior  person  in  the  presence  of  Miss 
Coates. 

"  We  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  you  here,"  said  the  latter, 
quietly. 

"What  church  shall  you  attend  ?"  inquired  Miss  Pelton. 

Was  it  a  strange  question  for  a  young  and  fashionable  girl  to 
ask  ?  Not  at  all.  It  is  the  first  that  conies  to  a  great  multi- 
tude of  church-going  people  in  America,  when  a  stranger  pro- 
poses to  domiciliate  himself  among  them. 

"  I  haven't  thought  as  far  as  that  yet,"  Nicholas  replied. 

"Well,  there  are  churches,  and  churches,  you  know,"  said 
Miss  Pelton  significantly. 

"  Yes,  I  know  there  are  a  great  many,"  Nicholas  responded. 

"Well,  I  didn't  mean  exactly  that,"  replied  Miss  Pelton. 
"  Don't  you  think,  now,"  she  went  on,  turning  with  a  graceful 
and  deferential  appeal  to  Miss  Larkin,  "  that  the  church  a  man 
goes  to  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  his  social  position?  It 
seems  to  me  a  stranger  ought  to  be  very  careful." 

"  I  think  it  depends  partly  upon  whether  the  man  is  a  gentle- 
man, and  partly  upon  what  he  regards  as  a  good  social  posi- 
tion," Miss  Larkin  replied. 

"  Now,  don't  be  naughty,"  said  Miss  Pelton,  tapping  Miss 
Larkin  with  her  fan.  "Don't  be  naughty,  and  don't  be  demo- 
cratic and  foolish.  You  know,  my  dear,  that  the  church  a  man 
goes  to  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world  witn  him.  You 
know  that  we  have  fashionable  churches  and  churches  that  are 
not  fashionable.  Now  that's  the  truth." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  US 

"  Fashionable  churches  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  Why,  certainly  !  "  said  Miss  Pelton. 

"  You  will  excuse  my  surprise,"  said  Nicholas,  "  but  I  have 
always  lived  where  there  was  but  one  church,  in  which  the  rich 
and  poor  met  together,  and  acknowledged  that  the  Lord  was 
the  maker  of  them  all.  A  fashionable  church  must  be  a  city 
institution;  and  I  don't  think  I  should  like  it.  To  tell  the 
truth,  the  idea  of  such  a  thing  shocks  me.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  ought  to  go  where  I  can  get  the  most  good  and  do  the  most 
good ;  and  so  long  as  the  Founder  of  our  religion  did  not  con- 
sult his  social  position  in  the  establishment  of  his  Church,  I 
don't  believe  I  will  do  it  in  choosing  mine." 

"  Oh,  you  are  naughty  and  democratic,  too,"  said  Miss  Pel- 
ton,  with  a  pout  and  a  toss  of  the  head.  "  I  shall  have  to  turn 
you  over  to  Mrs.  Ilmansee.  And  you're  naughty  to  make  such 
a  serious  thing  of  it,  too.  You  know  poor  little  I  can't  talk 
with  you,  and  you  take  advantage  of  me."  All  this  in  an 
injured  and  pathetic  tone,  as  if  she  were  a  spoiled  little  girl. 

"  Well,  really  now,  Miss  Pelton,"  said  Nicholas,  "  I  think  you 
are  hard  on  the  churches.  You  can't  mean  that  there  are 
churches  here  to  which  people  attach  themselves  because  they 
are  fashionable?  You  can't  mean  that  there  are  churches  here 
from  which  the  poor  are  practically  shut  away  because  they  are 
unfashionable,  and  that  those  who  attend  them  are  proud  of 
their  churches  and  their  company,  just  as  they  would  be  proud 
of  a  fashionable  house,  or  dress,  or, — or  even  a  pair  of  shoes  ? 
You  can't  mean  this  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't,  Mr.  Minturn !  You  scare  me  so!  I'm  not 
used  to  it,  you  know.  How  can  you  be  so  terrible  ?  " 

Miss  Coates,  during  this  conversation,  had  taken  the  position 
which  she  habitually  assumed  in  the  presence  of  such  butterflies 
as  Miss  Pelton.  She  sat  apart,  devouring  the  conversation,  and 
getting  ready  for  what  she  had  to  say, — provided  she  felt  called 
upon  to  say  anything.  She  was  not  ill-natured,  but  she  held  in 
superlative  contempt  a  frivolous,  fashionable  and  unthinking 
woman.  She  did  not  herself  attend  a  fashionable  church.  To 
7 


146  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

her  ear  even  the  phrase  which  designated  and  defined  it  was  an 
outrage  upon  religion  and  a  blasphemy  against  the  Master. 
She  knew  that  Miss  Pelton's  resources  were  extremely  limited 
in  any  serious  conversation,  and  that  if  Nicholas  undertook  an 
argument  with  her,  she  would  relapse  at  once  into  babyhood, 
and  make  the  transition  as  graceful  and  attractive  as  possible. 
In  justice  to  her  nature,  it  ought  to  be  said,  perhaps,  that  she 
wished  she  were  opposed  to  Nicholas  at  the  moment,  simply  to 
assert  the  power  of  woman  to  argue ;  but  she  was  with  him,  and 
very  much  in  earnest. 

"Yes,  that  is  precisely  what  she  means,"  said  Miss  Coates, 
sharply,  when  Miss  Pelton  dodged  the  questions  which  Nicholas 
put  to  her.  "  She  means  that  there  are  multitudes  here  who 
never  would  step  into  a  church  unless  it  were  fashionable ;  that 
they  go  there  to  show  themselves  in  high  society,  and  go  there 
for  what  they  can  get  out  of  high  society.  She  means  that  a 
church  is  fashionable  just  as  a  theater  is  fashionable, — that  a 
preacher  is  fashionable  just  as  an  actor  is  fashionable,  or  a 
dress-maker,  or  an  undertaker,  or  a  caterer.  Isn't  it  shocking  ?  " 

"  Don't  say  I  mean  it,  please  !  Say  you  mean  it,"  said  Miss 
Pelton,  pettishly. 

"Very  well,  I  mean  it,"  said  Miss  Coates,  emphatically.  "I 
mean  that  there  are  churches  here  in  which  no  poor  person 
ever  feels  at  home,  with  the  exception  of  one  here  and  there, 
who  is  unwilling  to  be  grouped  with  the  poor,  and  who  is  con- 
tent to  get  a  little  reflected  respectability  from  his  surroundings. 
There  are  such  poor  people  as  these  in  fashionable  churches, 
and  very  poor  sticks  they  are ;  but  the  great  multitude  of  the 
poor  are  as  much  shut  out  from  these  churches  as  they  are 
from  the  houses  of  those  who  control  and  attend  them.  In 
what  are  called,  by  courtesy,  the  houses  of  God,  the  distance 
between  the  rich  and  the  poor  is  as  great  as  it  is  in  the  houses 
of  men.  In  fact,  God  doesn't  hold  the  title-deeds  of  half  the 
churches  here.  Men  own  the  pews,  and  trade  in  them  as  if 
they  were  corner-lots  in  Paradise." 

All  this  was  news  to  Nicholas,  and,  although  h  was  serious 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  147 

news  enough,  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  join  in  the 
laugh  which  greeted  the  close  of  the  young  woman's  character- 
istic utterance.  There  was  evidently  a  spice  of  personal  feel 
ing  in  this  sweeping  arraignment  of  the  fashionable  Christianity 
of  the  city,  for  Miss  Coates  had  felt  its  hand  upon  herself.  She 
knew  that  her  own  path  would  have  been  much  easier  if,  with 
all  the  money  of  her  family,  she  had  chosen  to  count  herself 
with  the  fashionable  throng.  It  would  at  least  have  tolerated 
or  patronized  her,  and  she  was  fully  aware  that  when  she  rebel- 
led against  or  ignored  it,  she  would  become  a  social  sufferer. 

"You  are  a  little  hard,  I  fear,  Miss  Coates,"  said  Miss 
Larkin,  whose  sympathies  and  charities  went  upward  as  well 
as  downward.  "  These  people  do  not  see  their  own  inconsis- 
tency, and  cannot  understand  how  impossible  it  is  for  the  poor 
to  come  into  association  with  them.  I  have  often  heard  them 
deplore  the  absence  of  the  poor  from  their  churches,  and 
feebly  and  ignorantly  wonder  why  such  could  not  be  attracted 
to  them.  I  know,  too,  how  much  they  give  to  the  poor,  how 
they  labor  in  the  missions,  how  they  work  with  their  own 
hands  for  the  sick  among  them.  Some  of  the  dearest  and 
sweetest  Christian  women  of  my  acquaintance  are  in  the 
fashionable  churches ;  and  many  a  girl  who  only  has  the  credit 
of  being  a  devotee  of  fashion  is  as  truly  an  angel  of  merciful 
ministry  as  the  city  possesses." 

"  Now,  you're  good,"  exclaimed  Miss  Pelton,  running  to 
Miss  Larkin  prettily  and  giving  her  a  kiss. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Coates,  almost  bitterly,  "  they  pity  the 
poor,  and  that  is  exactly  what  the  poor  don't  want.  They 
stand  upon  their  lofty  heights  and  look  down  upon  and  pity 
them.  They  entertain  no  sense  of  brotherly  and  sisterly  equal- 
ity, based  upon  the  common  need  which  a  church  is  established 
to  supply.  The  difference  between  sympathy  and  pity  is  a 
difference  which  the  poor  apprehend  by  instinct.  They  are 
not  obliged  to  argue  the  matter  at  all,  and  wherever  there  is  a 
church  without  the  poor,  there  is  a  reason  for  this  absence; 
and  the  poor  are  not  responsible  for  it." 


148  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Miss  Larkin ;  "  but,  even  if  it 
is  true,  is  it  not  better  to  give  the  rich  and  fashionable  the  credit 
of  good  rather  than  bad  motives?  They  may  be  mistaken, 
and  be  good  all  the  same.  We  all  act  from  mixed  motives,  but 
the  dominant  motive  is  that  which  determines  the  character  of 
our  actions,  and  these  people  mean  well.  They  do  not  seem 
to  be  able  to  separate  their  Christianity  from  their  fashionable 
life  and  associations,  but  they  would  like  to  do  good,  and  get 
good.  If  they  are  unable  to  apprehend  the  way,  they  call 
for  our  pity  and  not  for  our  condemnation.  I  have  known  so 
many  sweet  and  good  people  among  them,  that  I  cannot  say 
less  for  them  than  this." 

"And  you  are  a  dear,  good  little  angel  yourself,"  said  Miss 
Pelton,  effusively. 

"And  it  comes  to  this,"  said  Miss  Coates,  "  that  we  are  all 
a  parcel  of  children,  and  our  Christianity  is  a  package  of  sugar- 
plums in  every  rich  boy's  and  rich  girl's  pocket,  to  be  peddled 
out  to  the  poor  children  as  a  charity — if  we  can  get  them  to 
take  it.  They  want  companionship,  and  we  give  them  marrons 
glaces.  They  want  sympathy,  and  we  toss  them  a  peppermint 
lozenge.  They  want  recognition  for  Christian  manhood  and 
womanhood,  and  they  get  a  chocolat  eclair.  They  want  a  voice 
in  the  councils  of  the  churches,  and  we  dip  into  another  pocket 
and  pull  out  a  penny  whistle,  and  tell  them  to  run  around  the 
corner  and  blow  it." 

Miss  Coates's  peroration  "  brought  down  the  house,"  and 
although  she  was  speaking  with  almost  a  spiteful  earnestness, 
she  was  obliged  to  join  in  the  laughter  she  had  excited. 

Nicholas  was  greatly  interested  in  the  conversation.  The 
discussion  itself  touched  upon  a  topic  of  profound  moment  to 
him,  but  the  revelation  of  mind  and  character  which  accom- 
panied it  was  more  enjoyable  than  any  book  he  had  ever  read. 
He  hardly  knew  which  he  admired  more  :  the  incisive,  out- 
spoken common  sense  of  Miss  Coates,  or  the  sweet  and 
sisterly  charitableness  of  Miss  Larkin.  He  could  not  doubt 
which  was  the  more  amiable,  though  he  felt  that  both  girls 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  149 

were  true-hearted,  and  that  both  held  the  same  truth,  though 
they  looked  at  it  from  opposite  sides. 

The  young  people  would  doubtless  have  gone  on  indefinitely 
with  their  talk,  but  they  were  fatally  interrupted. 

When  Mrs.  Benson  learned  that  a  stranger  was  calling  upon 
Miss  Larkin,  she  inquired  who  he  was,  and  learned  that  he  had 
first  inquired  for  her  husband.  Then  remembering  that  she 
had  often  heard  Nicholas  spoken  of,  and  that  Mr.  Benson  had 
expressed  a  wish  to  see  him,  she  feared  that  she  should  be 
derelict  in  duty  and  held  to  blame  if  she  did  not  immediately 
inform  her  husband  of  the  young  man's  presence.  She  accord- 
ingly sent  a  messenger  to  his  office  with  the  announcement. 

Mr.  Benson  was  full  of  business,  but,  although  he  dreaded 
the  interview  with  Nicholas,  he  wished  for  it,  and  wished  it 
were  well  over.  He  did  not  doubt  that  he  was  with  Miss  Lar- 
kin, and  that  they  were  enjoying  themselves  together.  The 
thought  made  him  intensely  uneasy,  although  he  could  not 
comprehend  how  any  young  young  man  would  desire  to  cherish 
more  than  friendly  relations  with  one  who  was  comparatively 
helpless, — especially  a  young  man  whose  circumstances  raised 
him  above  the  temptation  to  marry  for  money. 

It  was  difficult  for  him  to  leave  his  office  ;  but  he  had  at- 
tempted to  go  on  with  his  business  but  a  few  minutes  when  he 
found  that  his  mind  was  growing  feverish,  and  that  he  could  not 
command  it  to  attention.  Then  he  rose,  left  his  clients  behind 
him,  or  turned  them  away,  and  went  home ;  and  the  laughter 
over  Miss  Coates's  closing  speech  had  hardly  subsided  when  he 
presented  himself  at  Miss  Larkin' s  door.  He  was  in  a  good 
deal  of  trepidation  as  he  entered  at  her  bidding,  and  had  evi- 
dently braced  himself  to  meet  the  only  two  persons  in  the  world 
whom  he  had  reason  to  fear.  The  relief  which  he  felt  on  find- 
ing the  little  parlor  half  filled  with  young  people  whose  counte- 
nances were  aglow  with  merriment  was  evident  in  an  instanta- 
neous change  of  his  features. 

"  Why  !  this  is  lovely  !  this  is  lovely ! "  he  said  in  his  accus- 
tomed strong,  bland  tone.  He  found  it  easier  than  he  had 


ISO  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

anticipated  to  take  Nicholas  by  the  hand,  and  look  into  his 
eyes ;  but  the  young  man  grasped  a  hand  that  was  cold  and 
nervous,  and  recognized  a  certain  constraint  of  manner  that  a 
determined  will  was  not  entirely  able  to  suppress  or  soften. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  glad  to  see  you,  my  young  friend ! " 
said  Mr.  Benson,  with  a  touch  of  the  old  dignity  and  heartiness 
in  his  tone.  "  I  was  afraid  you  had  forsaken  us  forever,  and  it 
really  seemed  to  me  that  we  had  been  through  too  many  perils 
together,  and  received  too  many  favors  from  a  common  Provi- 
dence to  be  anything  but  friends,  so  long  as  our  lives  may  be 
spared.  You  are  very  welcome  to  my  house,  and  I  have  come 
from  my  business  to  tell  you  so.  Sit  down !  Sit  down,  my 
dear  sir ! " 

Nicholas  was  honest  in  every  mental  and  moral  fiber.  He 
was  as  sensitive,  too,  to  the  moral  atmosphere  of  a  man  as  a 
girl  might  be ;  and  when  he  heard  these  unctuous  words  shaped 
to  express  a  hearty,  friendly  interest,  he  somehow  knew  that  a 
selfish  fear  skulked  behind  and  dictated  them.  He  could  not 
readily  respond  to  them.  His  jaw  trembled,  and  almost  fell 
from  his  control ;  but  politeness  called  for  some  response, 
especially  as  three  young  ladies  were  regarding  him.  So,  as  he 
could  not  lie  without  choking,  he  said  : 

"  I  came  with  the  hope  of  seeing  you,  Mr.  Benson,  but  I  did 
not  expect  to  call  you  from  your  office.  To  be  honest,  I  didn't 
suppose  you  could  care  much  for  me." 

Nicholas  blushed,  for  he  knew  that  his  response  must  have 
appeared  ungracious  to  two  of  the  young  ladies  before  him.  It 
is  possible  that  the  consciousness  that  he  had  been  talking 
about  Mr.  Benson  had  something  to  do  with  his  embarrass- 
ment, but  the  skillful  and  self-assured  old  man  was  adroit 
enough  to  take  him  at  his  word,  and  to  assume  that  the  young 
man's  modesty  was  the  cause  of  his  coolness. 

"  Of  course  I  care  for  you  !  Of  course  I  care  for  you  !  " 
said  Mr.  Benson,  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Nicholas. 

Miss  Coates  and  Miss  Pelton  saw  that  something  was 
wrong,  and  immediately  rose  to  make  their  adieus. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  151 

"  Not  a  word  of  it !  not  a  word  of  it !  "  said  Mr.  Benson, 
waving  them  off.  "  Mr.  Minturn  and  I  will  retire  to  my  library. 
Come,  my  young  friend,  where  we  can  have  a  little  friendly 
chat — by  ourselves." 

So  Nicholas  bowed  to  the  younj,  feulies,  and  followed  him 

OOL 


XL 

IN   WHICH   NICHOLAS   AND   MR.    BENSON  COME  THROUGH   A  MIS 

UNDERSTANDING  TO   AN   UNDERSTANDING. 

To  live  and  act  in  an  atmosphere  of  popular  confidence  and 
deference  is  one  thing,  and  to  live  and  act  in  precisely  the  same 
way  in  an  atmosphere  of  mistrust  and  cold  politeness,  is  quite 
another.  Men  who  are  doubted  are  inclined  either  to  doubt 
themselves,  or  to  place  themselves  in  an  attitude  of  defiance. 
Even  a  lost  woman  may  save  herself  if  she  can  escape  the  pop- 
ular reprobation.  The  real,  like  the  sham  virtue,  thrives  best 
under  the  influence  of  the  public  respect,  as  the  lily  and  the 
weed  are  vivified  by  the  same  sun.  There  is  no  man  so  strong 
that  he  needs  no  bracing  by  the  good  opinions  and  the  hearty 
sympathies  of  his  fellows  ;  and  when  these  are  withheld  from 
one  who  has  been  accustomed  to  them,  it  is  hard  for  him  to 
keep  his  feet. 

The  simple  fact  that  there  were  two  persons  in  the  world, 
though  they  possessed  but  little  influence,  who  had  seen  into, 
and  seen  through,  Mr.  Benson,  was  a  demoralizing  power  upon 
him.  The  man  who  was  strong  before  the  world,  and  who  found 
it  comparatively  easy  to  resume  his  old  relations  with  it,  was 
weak  and  self-doubtful  when  in  the  presence  of  the  two  who 
knew  him  and  could  ruin  him.  The  influence  of  their  contempt 
was  to  make  him  consciously  a  worse  man  than  he  had  ever 
been.  It  tempted  him  to  lie.  It  tempted  him  to  act  a  part. 
It  moved  him  to  anger  and  hatred.  In  the  effort  to  appear 
the  true  man  he  was  not,  he  was  conscious  of  a  loss  of  self- 
respect,  and  of  the  development  of  purposes  and  sentiments 
which  made  him  capable  of  unwonted  meanness.  He  even 
came  to  feel  at  last — he  had  come  to  feel  before  Nicholas 
visited  him — that  these  two  lives,  spared  so  strangely  from  the 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  153 

death  to  which  in  his  cowardly  flight  he  had  left  them,  wese 
standing  between  him  and  a  comfortable  life,  if  they  did  not 
interpose  between  him  and  heaven. 

He  had  shut  Miss  Larkin's  mouth.  That  was  something ; 
but  he  was  surprised  to  find  how  little  it  was,  after  all.  He 
never  could  be  himself  in  her  presence  again.  He  had  not 
'shut  the  mouth  of  Nicholas,  and  he  was  sure,  from  the  embar- 
rassment of  the  young  man,  that  he  (Mr.  Benson)  had  been  the 
topic  of  conversation  during  the  morning.  Nicholas  himself 
was  only  too  conscious  that  Mr.  Benson  had  read  as  much  as 
this. 

Mr.  Benson  felt,  on  entering  his  library  with  Nicholas,  that 
his  true  way  to  reach  the  young  man's  heart  was  through  a 
manifestation  of  interest  in  his  affairs.  That  had  been  his 
experience  with  other  men,  and  he  would  try  it  with  this  man. 

"  Take  a  seat,  my  young  friend.  There  !  Let  me  relieve 
you  of  your  hat.  Now  this  is  cozy,  and  nice,  and  we  can  be 
by  ourselves.  I've  been  wanting  very  much  to  hear  about 
your  misfortune.  Of  course  I  have  read  all  about  it  in  the 
papers,  but  they  always  exaggerate.  You  lost  some  bonds?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  "and  what  is  worse,  they  were  not 
registered,  and  I  have  no  record  of  their  numbers." 

"  Is  it  possible  ? "  exclaimed  Mr.  Benson,  with  indignant 
emphasis.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  that  that  lawyer  of  yours 
neglected  a  duty  so  simple  that  a  child  would  have  known 
enough  to  perform  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  I  don't  mean  to  say  any  such 
thing.  A  record  of  the  numbers  was  made,  but  it  has  been 
lost,  and  cannot  be  found." 

"  Well,  well,  well !  That  is  bad ;  but  remember  what  I 
told  you  :  I  never  saw  a  country  lawyer  yet  who  was  fit  to  take 
charge  of  such  affairs  as  yours.  Well,  well,  well !  " 

And  Mr.  Benson  shook  his  head,  as  if  it  were  quite  the 
reverse  of  well.  Then  he  went  to  his  desk,  took  out  an 
account-book,  and  said : 

"  Please  describe  these  bonds  to  me.  It  may  happen  that  I 
7* 


i  $4  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

can  get  a  clew  to  them.  I  deal  with  a  great  many  poor 
people  ;  but  your  man's  negligence  has  made  such  a  botch  of 
the  business  that  the  chances  are  all  against  my  doing  anything 
for  you." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Benson,"  said  Nicholas,  with  an  effort, 
"  but  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  of  Mr.  Gold  in  that  way 
I  think  he  is  an  unusually  careful  man." 

Mr.  Benson  smiled  his  superior  smile. 

"  Your  charity  for  him,"  he  said,  "  does  you  credit,  consider- 
ing how  much  you  have  suffered  by  him,  but  it  will  not  bring 
back  the  bonds.  Let's  see.  New  York  Central,  J  think  the 
paper  stated." 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Benson  wrote  the  fact  down,  and  then  said  : 

"How  many?" 

"Twenty-five." 

Mr.  Benson  made  a  long,  low  whistle,  expressive  of  mingled 
surprise  and  pity — as  if  he  had  seen  a  boy  cut  his  finger — while 
he  wrote  down  the  number. 

"  Date  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Date  of  what?" 

"  Of  the  robbery." 

"August  first." 

"  Yes,  August  first."     And  he  recorded  it. 

"  How  many  men  were  there  engaged  in  the  robbery  ?  " 

"Three.     I  believe  there  were  not  more." 

"  Well,  I  may  as  well  put  that  down ;  for  don't  you  see  that 
the  bonds  will  be  divided  ?  The  probabilities  are  that  one  man 
owned  the  schooner,  and  as  the  bonds  cannot  be  divided 
evenly,  he  will  keep  nine,  and  the  others  will  have  eight  each. 
Now  both  these  numbers  are  unusual.  Men  are  fond  of  buying 
bonds  by  fives  and  tens,  and  it  is  barely  possible  that  by  refer- 
ring to  the  books,  we  can  find  who  has  presented  these  odd 
numbers  of  coupons.  I  don't  know,  but  the  idea  seems  plausi- 
ble. At  any  rate,  I  wouldn't  give  up  hope  or  effort  to  get  them 
back,  and  bring  the  robbers  to  justice.  If  you  had  the  numbers 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  155 

you  might  be  tempted  to  compromise  with  the  rascals ;  and  if 
there  is  one  duty  that  a  man  owes  to  society  more  than  another, 
it  is  that  of  refusing  to  compromise  with  crime.  I  have  had 
more  than  one  temptation  to  do  it,  but  I  thank  God  that  I  have 
never  done  it." 

Mr.  'Benson  was  quite  his  old  self  during  all  this  talk,  and 
Nicholas  could  not  help  admiring  the  ingenuity  of  his  conjec- 
tures, and  the  business  way  in  which  he  had  approached  the 
matter ;  but  he  felt  that  he  was  not  done  with  the  man,  or 
rather,  that  the  man  was  not  done  with  him. 

Mr  Benson  had  never  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  the  little 
note  from  Miss  Larkin,  which  he  had  found  upon  his  table,  on  the 
evening  of  his  return  to  his  home.  It  had  made  him  uneasy, 
for,  unless  Nicholas  had  become  something  more  than  a  friend 
to  her,  he  could  not  imagine  why  she  should  allude  to  any 
possible  change  in  her  relations  to  her  guardian.  He  had 
carefully  watched  the  mail,  too,  and  felt  sure  that  nothing  had 
passed  between  the  young  man  and  his  ward  since  their  return. 

But  the  embarrassment  of  Nicholas  on  meeting  him — the 
crust  of  cold  politeness  which  invested  the  young  man,  so  cold 
and  hard  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  pierce  it — aroused  his 
suspicion,  and  he  determined  that  before  they  should  separate, 
hi  would  know  the  truth.  How  should  he  manage  to  get  at 
it? 

"  How  do  you  find  our  young  lady  this  morning  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Benson,  as  if  Miss  Larkin  were  a  piece  of  property  of 
which  he  and  Nicholas  were  joint  possessors. 

"She  seems  quite  well,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Do  you  know," — and  Mr.  Benson  drew  his  chair  nearer  to 
Nicholas  and  looked  into  his  uneasy  eyes, — "  Do  you  know 
that  she  seems  better  to  me  than  she  has  seemed  for  years  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.     How  should  I  ?  " 

"  Now  wouldn't  it  be  a  most  singular  dispensation  of 
Providence  if  the  shock  which  she  experienced  at  the  time  of 
the  wreck  should  be  the  means  of  her  cure?  It  looks  like  it. 
Upon  my  word,  it  looks  like  it." 


i  $6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Nicholas  could  no  more  have  suppressed  the  feeling  of  joy 
that  thrilled  his  soul  and  body  alike,  and  lighted  his  eyes,  and 
expressed  itself  in  every  feature,  than  he  could  have  stopped 
the  beating  of  his  heart.  He  forgot  for  the  moment  who  Mr. 
Benson  was.  He  was  too  much  elated  to  recognize  the  fact 
that  he  was  the  subject  of  the  most  cool  and  cunning  manipula- 
tion. He  was  simply  overjoyed  with  the  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  Miss  Larkin's  recovery,  and  he  reached  out  his 
hand  eagerly  to  grasp  that  of  Mr.  Benson,  and  said  : 

"  It  is  too  good  to  be  true  ! — Excuse  me  ! " 

Then  he  sank  back  in  his  chair,  his  face  covered  with  con- 
fusion. 

Mr.  Benson  had  ascertained,  beyond  a  question  in  his  own 
mind,  that  Nicholas  was  in  love  with  his  ward.  He  was  not 
displeased  ;  he  was  delighted,  though  he  feigned  ignorance  or 
indifference.  Involuntarily  he  drew  back  his  chair,  and  again 
placed  himself  at  the  distance  of  dignity  and  superiority  from 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  deal  with  men. 

"Naturally,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "I  have  a  great  deal  of 
anxiety  for  our  pretty  friend.  If  she  recovers,  and  I  profoundly 
hope  that  she  will,  she  will  possibly — I  do  not  know  but  I  may 
say  probably — follow  the  fortunes  of  such  girls,  and  make  a  mat- 
rimonial connection.  All  I  have  to  say  is  that  the  young  man  who 
secures  her  hand  must  satisfy  me.  She  has  no  father  to  consult, 
and  I  feel  responsible  for  her.  I  hope  she  will  be  prudent, 
and  not  compel  me  to  exercise  an  influence — not  to  say  an 
authority — against  her  wishes.  I  should  fail  grievously  of  my 
duty  if  I  were  to  neglect  to  interpose  such  power  as  I  may 
possess  between  her  and  any  unworthy  alliance." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  declaration,  Nicholas  realized  for 
the  first  time  the  ingenuity  with  which  he  had  been  handled. 
Instantaneously  revL-wing  the  means  by  which  he  had  been  led 
to  reveal  himself,  and  apprehending  the  nature  and  design  of 
the  threat  with  which  he  had  been  menaced,  he  felt  a  tide  of 
irrepressible  indignation  rising  within  him.  He  would  have 
been  glad  to  seize  his  hat  and  rush  from  the  house  to  save  him- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  15? 

self  from  saying  what  he  might  be  sorry  for ;  but  that  he  could 
not  do  without  apparent  rudeness  and  the  possible  sacrifice  of 
very  precious  interests.  He  was  not  afraid  of  Mr.  Benson,  but 
he  had  no  wish  to  taunt  him  with  his  cowardice  and  treachery. 

His  lips  were  white  and  unsteady,  and  he  trembled  in  every 
fiber  of  his  body  as  he  said  : 

"  Mr.  Benson,  I  think  I  understand  you." 

"  Well,  sir,"  responded  Mr.  Benson  blandly,  and  with  a  well- 
feigned  look  of  surprise,  "I  have  not  consciously  dealt  in  enig- 
mas. I  have  always  endeavored  to  be  a  plain-speaking  man, 
and  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  I  don't  quite  understand 
you." 

"Mr.  Benson,  can  you,  with  God's  eye  on  you,  say  that  you 
don't  understand  me  ?  " 

This  speech  seemed  to  the  hackneyed  old  man  very  melo- 
dramatic and  boyish,  but  Nicholas  was  terribly  in  earnest,  and 
Mr.  Benson  winced  under  his  fierce  eyes  and  his  searching 
inquiry. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  state  the  construction 
you  put  upon  words  which  I  still  insist  were  entirely  direct  and 
simple,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  coloring,  and  becoming  excited  in 
spite  of  himself. 

Nicholas  found  his  nerves  growing  steady  as  he  responded : 

"  Yes,  I  will.  It  is  better  to  do  it  now,  that  we  may  under- 
stand each  other.  You  warned  me  away  from  Miss  Larkin 
once,  on  the  deck  of  the  '  Ariadne,'  by  the  assurance  that 
marriage  was  out  of  the  question  with  her.  Then,  in  her  hour 
of  peril,  you  forsook  her  to  save  yourself,  and  I  thank  God 
that  the  duty  you  abandoned  devolved  upon  me.  You  volun- 
tarily and  shamefully  abdicated  your  position  as  her  protector. 
To-day  you  bring  me  into  your  library,  and  think  you  learn  that 
I  am  interested  in  her  as  a  lover.  You  do  this  by  a  cunning 
trick,  and  when  you  satisfy  yourself  that  your  trick  is  a  success, 
you  sit  back  and  inform  me  coolly  that  if  I  am  to  be  an  accepted 
lover,  I  must  satisfy  you.  I  understand  exactly  what  this  means. 
It  means  that  if  I  want  the  favor  of  your  approval,  I  must  keep 


158  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

my  mouth  shut  about  you.  You  have  secured  the  promise  of 
your  ward  not  to  betray  you.  She  will  keep  her  premise,  but 
you  will  get  no  promise  from  me.  You  have  sought  to  get  :ne 
into  your  hands,  and  to  get  yourself  out  of  mine.  I  do  not 
assent  to  the  arrangement.  I  propose  to  go  and  come  in  this 
house  whenever  I  choose,  to  have  the  freest  access  to  your 
ward  that  she  may  permit  or  desire,  to  be  her  friend  or  her  lover 
without  asking  your  permission,  and  to  protect  her  from  any 
oppressive  authority  you  may  see  fit  to  exercise  upon  her." 

During  this  terrible  arraignment  and  threat,  Mr.  Benson  sat 
back  in  his  chair  like  one  benumbed.  The  lasso  that  he  had 
undertaken  to  throw  around  the  neck  of  his  "  young  friend," 
had  missed  its  mark,  whirled  back,  and  fastened  itself  upon  his 
own;  and  with  every  word  of  Nicholas  he  felt  it  tightening 
•tpon  his  throat.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of  distress  and  despair. 

"  I  think  you  will  be  sorry  for  what  you  have  said,"  he  mut- 
tered between  his  teeth.  "But  I  forgive  you." 

"  It  will  be  time  for  you  to  offer  your  forgiveness  when  I  ask 
for  it,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  cruelly  hard  upon  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  truth  is  hard,  but  I  am  not  responsible  for  it 
You  have  been  hard  upon  me,  and  I  don't  see  what  fault  you 
have  to  find.  If  you  had  been  content  to  trust  to  my  good-will 
and  my  honor,  this  scene  would  not  have  occurred.  I  have 
never  betrayed  you,  but  you  were  not  content,  and  so  you 
reached  out  to  get  me  into  your  hands.  I  choose,  instead,  to 
hold  you  in  mine.  That's  alL" 

"  What  of  the  future  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Benson. 

"That  depends  entirely  upon  yourself,  sir." 

Mr.  Benson  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  vise.  He  had  found 
a  man  who  could  not  be  managed.  He  had  entirely  miscalcu- 
lated his  own  power  and  the  young  man's  weakness.  He  was 
baffled  and  beaten  by  his  own  weapons,  and  rose  staggering  to 
his  feet. 

"  You  will  not  refuse  me  your  hand  ?  "  he  said,  approaching 
Nicholas. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  159 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  take  it  ?  " 

"In  token  of  amity." 

Nicholas  gave  him  his  hand,  which  he  took  and  held  while  he 
said: 

"  Mr.  Minturn,  what  you  have  attributed  to  mental  cowardice 
was  uncontrollable  bodily  fear.  I  ask  you  to  pity  my  misfortune, 
and  to  remember  that  you  hold  a  spotless  reputation  in  your 
hands,  which  I  have  worked  all  my  life  to  build  up  and  protect 
You  are  at  liberty  to  come  and  go  in  my  house  at  your  will." 

Nicholas  withdrew  his  hand. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not  consent  to  part  in  this  way.  It 
was  mental  cowardice  for  you  to  seek  by  unfair  means,  to  get 
me  into  your  hands.  The  other  matter  you  may  settle  with 
yourself.  You  compelled  me  to  allude  to  it,  and  I  did  it  with 
pain ;  but  you  have  no  sound  apology  to  offer  for  the  attempt 
to  take  advantage  of  me." 

"  Very  well,  I  can  say  no  more." 

The  interview  had  come  to  an  end,  and  Nicholas  bade  him 
good-morning.  Mr.  Benson,  on  being  left  alone,  sat  down  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was  helpless.  He  could  not 
even  forbid  Nicholas  his  house.  He  should  be  obliged  to  wear 
before  his  own  family  the  guise  of  friendliness  toward  him.  He 
who  had  so  long  molded  and  managed  men  had  become  an- 
other man's  man, — a  vassal  to  the  will  of  one  so  young  that  he 
had  fancied  he  could  wind  him  around  his  finger  as  he  might 
wind  the  corner  of  his  handkerchief.  But  there  sprang  in  his 
heart  the  impulse  of  revenge,  and  the  more  he  entertained  it 
and  brooded  over  it,  the  stronger  it  grew.  He  would,  in  some 
way  consistent  with  his  own  safety,  be  even  with  his  captor. 
He  would  not  submit  to  be  browbeaten  and  bullied  in  his  own 
house  by  one  whom  he  had  looked  upon  as  little  more  than 
a  child.  Once,  these  thoughts  would  have  startled  his  con. 
science,  but  that  monitor  was  not  so  sensitive  as  it  was  once. 

He  rose,  took  down  his  record  of  the  stolen  bonds,  looked  it 
over,  replaced  it,  and  then  quietly  went  down-stairs  and  left  hia 
house.  Nicholas,  meanwhile,  had  gone  directly  to  Miss  Lai- 


i6o  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

kin's  parlor.  He  found  her  alone,  and  very  much  excited; 
She  had  overheard  the  long  conversation  without  understanding 
it,  and  was  sure  that  there  had  been  a  scene.  As  Nicholas  en- 
tered at  her  bidding,  she  looked  questioningly  into  his  face. 

"We've  had  it  out,"  said  he,  solemnly. 

"  You  have  not  quarreled  ?  " 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  amounts  to  that,"  he  replied.  "He 
took  me  in  there  for  the  simple  purpose  of  tying  my  hands.  I 
refused  to  have  them  tied,  and  I  have  tied  his." 

Nicholas  wanted  her  justification ;  but  he  knew  that  the  de- 
tails of  the  difficulty  were  not  to  be  revealed  to  her,  as  they 
involved  the  tacit  confession  of  his  love  for  her. 

"  You  must  trust  me,"  he  said.  "  I  could  not  have  done  or 
said  less  than  I  did,  without  confessing  myself  to  be  a  coward 
and  a  fool.  I  repent  of  nothing,  and  I  fear  nothing.  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  show  myself  to  you  again  if  I  had  not  resented 
his  attempt  to  become  my  master." 

"  I  do  trust  you  entirely." 

Nicholas  felt  again  the  inclination  to  pour  out  his  heart  to 
her,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  You  are  not  going  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  will  come  again  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Good-bye  ! " 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him.  He  took  it,  and  for  the  first 
time  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  There  was  no  resistance. 

"  I  have  earned  the  favor,"  he  said,  blushing.  "  Good-bye, 
again  ! "  and  he  went  down  the  stairs  as  rapidly  as  if  the  house 
had  been  on  fire. 

Once  more  in  the  street,  he  found  himself  strangely  aimless 
and  light-footed.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  walking  on  air.  He 
had  vibrated  between  two  extremes  of  passion,  in  which  he  had 
touched  the  heights  and  the  depths  of  his  own  manhood,  and 
his  heart  was  full  of  triumph.  He  had  caught  victory  from 
man  and  hope  from  woman  ;  and  these  deep  and  stirring  ex- 
periences of  life  were  so  fresh  to  him,  that  his  heart  responded 


NICHOLAS  MINT  URN.  161 

to  them  with  boyish  elation.  He  had  not  announced  his  arrival 
to  Glezen ;  so  he  bent  his  steps  toward  the  young  lawyer's  office. 
He  opened  the  door  carefully,  looked  in,  and  saw  him  busily 
reading.  The  latter,  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  door,  raised 
his  eyes  to  a  mirror  before  him,  and  recognized  the  intruder. 
Then  he  said  aloud,  as  if  he  were  reading  from  the  book  before 
him  : 

"  And  this  young  man,  who  had  thus  escaped  from  the  suffo- 
cation of  the  sea,,  was  remorselessly  gagged  by  a  rag.  He 
leaped  from  the  jaws  of  death  into  the  embrace  of  a  midnight 
assassin.  The  sea  robbed  him  of  his  clothes ;  the  women 
robbed  him  of  his  heart ;  the  men  robbed  him  of  his  silver  and 
his  bonds,  and  he  was  left  a  worthless  waif  upon  the  tide  of 
time." 

Then  he  slammed  the  book  together,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Thus 
history  repeats  itself !  Well  did  uncle  Solomon  say  that '  there 
is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  ' — and Hullo,  old  boy  J" 

"  Hullo  !     Interesting  book  you  have  there  !  " 

"Very!" 

"  You  didn't  catch  me  with  your  everlasting  fooling  that 
time,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Nicholas,  Nicholas  !  My  dear,  unsophisticated  young 
friend  !  I  fear  that  you  are  growing  familiar  with  this  false  and 
fleeting  world,  and  getting  ready  to  cheat  me  out  of  half  the 
fun  of  living.  Now,  sit  down  and  tell  me  everything  you 
know." 

The  chaffing  went  on  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  it  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  entrance  of  a  messenger  with  a  note.  It  was 
written  in  a  neat,  business-like  hand — evidently  a  lady's  hand, 
however — and  purported  to  be  from  Mrs.  Coates.  It  was 
written  in  her  name,  at  least,  and  was  an  invitation  of  the  two 
young  men  to  dinner. 

Glezen  jumped  upon  his  feet  and  cut  a  pigeon-wing. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  longing  to  meet 
Mrs.  Coates — yearning,  so  to  say  ?  They  tell  me  her  con- 
versational powers  are  something  miraculous.  There  is  a  re- 


i63  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

cess  in  my  innermost  nature — a  sort  of  divine  exigency,  as  it 
were — which  it  seems  to  me  Mrs.  Coates  can  tickle.  Let  us 
go,  by  all  means." 

"Glezen,"  said  Nicholas,  soberly,  "if  I  supposed  you  capa- 
ole  of  mortifying  Miss  Coates  by  practicing  upon  the  foolish- 
ness of  her  mother,  no  money  could  hire  me  to  go  to  her  house 
with  you.  But  you  will  not  do  it.  You  are  a  hopeless  wag, 
but  you  are  a  gentleman." 

"  Thank  you  !     Hem  !  " 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"Accept,  of  course." 

"  Well,  do  it  at  once,  then,  for  there'll  be  another  invitation 
here  in  five  minutes." 

Glezen  wrote  an  acceptance  for  himself  and  his  friend,  and 
dispatched  it.  It  had  hardly  left  the  office  when  another  was 
handed  in  from  Mrs.  Ilmansee.  Miss  Coates  and  Miss  Pelton 
had  gone  directly  home  from  Miss  Larkin's  room,  but  Miss 
Pelton  lived  farther  up  town  than  Miss  Coates,  and  so  had  a 
disadvantage  of  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  against  her.  Mrs. 
Coates  would  not  be  caught  napping  this  time,  and  her  invita- 
tion was  dispatched  as  quickly  as  her  daughter  could  write  it. 

So  with  pleasant  anticipations  of  the  social  event  before 
them,  the  two  young  men  subsided  into  the  quiet,  sober  talk 
for  which  Glezen  was  always  ready  after  he  had  "  got  down  to 
his  beer,"  through  the  froth  of  nonsense  that  invaluably  crowned 
his  tankard. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WHICH   GIVES   A    REPORT    IN    DETAIL  OF    THE    DINNER    PARTY 
AT  THE   COATESES. 

THE  finest  lawn  is  sometimes  deformed  by  a  rock  so  huge 
in  bulk  and  harsh  in  outline,  that  it  is  beyond  the  gardener's 
skill  to  make  it  beautiful,  either  by  climbing  turf  or  fringing 
shrubbery.  Mrs.  Coates  had  her  trials,  among  which  was  Mr. 
Coates,  to  whom  a  dress-coat  was  an  abomination,  and  a  white 
cravat  a  thing  of  ugliness  and  a  torment  forever.  It  was  in 
vain  that  she  represented  to  him  the  responsibilities  and  re- 
quirements of  a  forehanded  man  who  had  given  the  best  ad- 
vantages to  his  offspring.  She  respected  his  talent  for  making 
money  ;  she  had  a  dim  idea  that  he  was  her  superior  in  mental 
gifts,  and  she  knew,  as  well  as  a  woman  of  her  nature  could 
know,  that  he  held  her  in  a  sort  of  good-humored  contempt ; 
but  she  felt  that  he  did  not  take  as  kindly  as  he  ought  to 
polite  life,  and  that  in  this  respect,  at  least,  she  was  his 
superior. 

There  was  another  matter  which  had  always  been  a  source 
of  mortification  to  her, — Mr.  Coates  was  a  stammerer.  He 
never  said  much,  but  what  he  did  say  was  broken  into  so  many 
pieces  that  she  was  always  afraid  that  his  auditors  could  not 
put  them  together  and  make  words  and  sentences  of  them. 
He  had  the  habit  of  his  daughter — perhaps  he  had  bestowed 
the  habit  upon  her — of  accumulating  material  while  conversa- 
tion was  in  progress,  and  then  coming  out  with  it  at  unexpected 
times,  and  in  surprising  ways.  Unfurnished  with  her  nimble 
tongue,  he  aimed  at  laconic  condensation,  and  made  the  most 
of  his  brief  efforts.  He  hung  in  the  social  sun  like  an  icicle, 
now  and  then  thawing  to  the  extent  of  a  drop,  which  spattered 
about  in  sparkling  fragments  as  it  fell,  and  froze  upon  the 


1 64  NICHOLAS  M1NTURN. 

memory.  His  vocal  efforts  were  periodical,  like  the  perform- 
ances  of  the  skeleton  and  the  twelve  apostles  operated  by  the 
tower-clock  at  Prague.  They  not  only  told  the  time  of  day 
with  great  precision,  but  they  told  it  with  jerks  ;  and  the  jerks 
added  an  element  of  humor  to  what  might  otherwise  have  been 
a  tame  proceeding. 

But  Mr.  Coates  and  Mrs.  Coates  got  along  together  pretty 
well,  considering  how  conscious  each  was  of  the  imperfections 
of  the  other.  She  could  do  nothing  with  him,  and  he  could  do 
nothing  with  her ;  so,  in  a  sort  of  despair  of  each  other,  they 
came  to  a  tacit  agreement  to  let  each  other  alone,  and  permit 
their  acquaintances  to  come  to  their  own  conclusions  with  re- 
gard to  the  respective  merits  and  demerits  of  the  pair.  And 
their  acquaintances  did  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs. 
Coates  was  good-natured,  pretentious,  insensitive,  and  amusing 
as  a  bore,  and  that  Mr.  Coates  was  a  man  of  common  sense, 
modesty,  and  a  concentrated  waggery  that  lost  nothing  of  its 
humor  by  the  impediments  to  its  expression.  In  short,  Mr. 
Coates,  very  much  to  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Coates,  was  a  popu- 
lar man,  who  stood  in  the  community  for  just  what  he  was 
worth,  and  was  very  much  beloved  and  respected. 

When  Nicholas  and  Glezen  set  off  for  the  dinner  party  to 
which  they  had  been  invited,  the  former  was  in  a  good  deal  of 
nervous  trepidation.  He  sympathized  so  profoundly  with  Miss 
Coates,  and  had  so  thorough  a  respect  for  her,  that  he  dreaded 
the  developments  of  the  occasion  on  her  account.  He  felt, 
too,  that  he  could  not  quite  trust  his  friend  Glezen,  for  the 
temptation  to  chaff  the  old  lady  would  be  well-nigh  irresistible. 
Still,  he  believed  in  the  power  of  the  young  woman  to  hold  him 
to  propriety.  She  had  certainly  exercised  that  power  upon 
himself,  and  he  was  measurably  sure  of  the  same  influence 
upon  his  friend.  As  for  Glezen,  he  had  heard  so  much  about 
Miss  Co'ates  that  he  had  determined  to  put  himself  upon  his 
best  behavior,  at  whatever  pain  of  self-denial. 

When  the  two  young  men  entered  Mrs.  Coates's  drawing- 
room,  they  discovered  that  the  dinner  was  to  be  strictly  en 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  165 

famille.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  Mis.  Coates  to 
deprive  Jenny  of  the  chances  offered  by  the  possession  for  an 
evening  of  two  eligible  young  men.  As  she  took  the  hands  of 
one  after  the  other,  she  said  : 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  you  all  to  ourselves 
this  evening  !  Not  that  I  am  selfish,  for  I'm  not.  Jenny  has 
often  said  to  me,  '  Mother,'  says  she,  '  whatever  may  be  your 
short-comings,  selfishness  isn't  one  of  them,  no  matter  what 
appearances  may  be.'  Says  I,  'Jenny,  there  are  joys  with 
which  the  stranger  intermeddleth  not,  unless  it's  against  my 
consent,  and  one  of  'em  is  dining  with  dear  friends  for  the  first 
time  in  my  own  house.  There,  Jenny,  is  where  I  draw  my  line,' 
says  I.  But  Jenny  says,  says  she,  '  I  think  it  would  be  nice  to 
have  Mrs.  Ilmansee  and  her  sister,  and  Mrs.  Morgan  and  Miss 
Morgan.'  But  says  I  to  Jenny,  'Jenny,'  says  I,  'Mrs.  Ilmansee 
would  just  as  soon  think  of  inviting  the  Old  Scratch  as  of  invit- 
ing me,  though  why  she  should  feel  so,'  says  I,  'passes  my 
comprehension,  and  I'm  going  to  draw  my  line  just  there.  I've 
got  the  first  chance,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it,"  says  I." 

While  this  introduction  to  the  social  entertainment  was  in 
progress,  Nicholas  and  Miss  Coates  gradually  retired,  and  found 
themselves  very  agreeably  entertained  with  each  other.  Glezen, 
with  his  closed  mouth,  was  left  with  Mrs.  Coates,  and  was 
somewhat  embarrassed  by  the  situation.  It  was,  therefore,  with 
a  great  sense  of  relief  that  he  heard  a  latch-key  at  work  at  the 
door,  and  saw  Jenny  fly  to  meet  her  father.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  sparkling  eyes  and  her  lithe  and  tastefully 
dressed  figure  as  she  disappeared,  and  recognized  at  once  the 
sympathy  that  existed  between  the  old  merchant  and  his 
daughter.  He  heard  her  lively  brush  upon  his  dusty  clothes, 
and  a  hurried  colloquy,  and  then  the  daughter  led  the  old  man 
in  and  presented  him  to  the  two  guests. 

"  H-how  d'  do  ?     P-pretty  well  ?  " 
'  H-how  d'  do  ?     P-pretty  well  ?  " 

These  questions  were  accompanied  by  two  bows,  directed  to 
the  two  young  men ;  and  then  he  advanced  and  took  each  by 


166  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

the  hand.  His  clothes  were  none  of  the  nicest,  either  in  quality 
or  fit ;  his  cravat  was  crazily  tied,  in  such  a  knot  as  he  would 
have  made  in  doing  up  hurriedly  a  package  of  goods  ;  his  head 
was  bald,  but  his  eyes  and  mouth  were  shrewd  and  good-natured, 
and  Glezen,  particularly,  was  attracted  to  him  at  once.  The 
attraction  was  mutual,  and  Mr.  Coates  seemed  conscious  that 
Nicholas — less  used  to  men — found  it  hard  to  reconcile  his  host's 
appearance  with  his  surroundings. 

Then  Mrs.  Coates  excused  herself  to  look  after  her  dinner,  as 
she  had  not  arrived  at  the  point  where  she  could  surrender  her 
housekeeping  cares  to  her  servants.  Housekeeping  had  always 
been  her  strong  point.  Miss  Coates  hung  about  her  father, 
brought  him  an  easy-chair,  and  by  all  considerate  acts  of  def- 
erence and  affection,  seemed  to  endeavor  to  excite  Glezen' s 
respect  for  him,  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  she  was  accomplish- 
ing more  for  herself  than  for  her  father.  Her  arts,  however, 
were  unnecessary,  for  the  men  understood  each  other. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Coates  and  Mrs.  Coates  had  learned 
to  let  each  other  alone.  This  was  strictly  true,  however,  only 
when  visitors  were  not  present.  It  seemed  to  be  necessary,  in 
the  presence  of  strangers,  to  vindicate  their  own  sense  of  pro- 
priety by  either  exposing,  or  apologizing  for,  each  other's  faults. 

When  Miss  Coates  had  comfortably  seated  her  father,  and 
seen  Glezen  draw  a  chair  to  his  side,  she  resumed  her  conver- 
sation with  Nicholas.  Then  the  old  man  turned  to  Glezen  and 
quietly  inquired  : 

"  H-how  long  have  you  b-been  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ten  minutes,  perhaps,"  Glezen  replied. 

"T-tiredof  it?" 

"  Of  course  not ;  why  should  I  be  ?  " 

There  was  a  queer  working  of  the  old  man's  lips,  as  he  re- 
sponded : 

"  M-Mrs.  C-Coates  is  a  f-funny  old  w-watch.  She  broke 
her  chain  a  g-good  while  ago,  and  has  been  r-running  down 
ever  since.  She  must  have  a  m-mainspring  a  m-mile  long." 

No  power  could  have  restrained  Glezen's  laughter  over  this, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  167 

and  he  laughed  so  heartily  and  so  long  that  Nicholas  and 
Jenny  both  rose  from  their  seats  and  approached  them.  But 
•Mr.  Coates  was  entirely  unmoved.  Not  a  sympathetic  ripple 
betrayed  itself  upon  his  face,  while  he  completed  for  Glezen's 
ear  the  remainder  of  his  statement  and  the  rounding  out  of  his 
figure. 

"  I  used  to  w-wind  her  up  too  t-tight,  I  suppose.  " 

Nothing  but  the  protestations  of  Jenny  could  have  hindered  her 
mother  from  preparing  the  young  men  for  what  she  was  pleased 
to  call  the  "  impederment "  of  her  husband.  He  had  calculated 
upon  this  preparation,  and,  in  his  remark  to  Glezen,  had  in- 
tended to  pay  off  his  little  debt,  so  that  he  and  his  wife  might 
start  even  with  the  evening's  guests. 

When,  with  a  highly  self-satisfied  air,  Mrs.  Coates  returned 
with  the  announcement  that  dinner  was  ready,  she  found  them 
all  in  a  lively  frame  of  mind,  and  Nicholas  and  Jenny  just 
where  she  would  have  had  them — together.  She  took  Glezen's 
ami,  and  gave  a  significant  nod  to  Nicholas,  who  rose  and  gave 
his  arm  to  Miss  Coates,  and  then  all  proceeded  to  the  dining- 
room,  Mr.  Coates  shambling  along  in  the  rear.  The  table-linen 
was  rich  and  immaculate,  and  the  porcelain  and  silver  were  all 
that  was  desirable. 

"  Silent  grace ! "  said  Mrs.  Coates  in  a  low  tone,  bending 
over  her  plate — a  motion  that  was  imitated  by  all  but  the  head 
of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Coates,  unfortunately,  did  not  share  the  feeling  of  her 
daughter  with  regard  to  fashionable  churches.  She  had  nibbled 
about  in  her  own  homely  pasture,  among  the  thistles  and  mulleins 
that  had  been  kept  undipped  from  the  fear  of  formalism,  and 
pretended  to  herself  and  her  neighbors  that  she  was  content ; 
but  she  had  looked  over  what  was  a  homely  fence  on  her  side, 
and  a  flowery  hedge  on  the  other,  into  a  pasture  which,  in  her 
eyeSy  was  a  field  of  enchantment.  The  fold  was  so  tastefully 
built,  the  paths  were  so  bordered  with  green,  the  hills  were  so 
smooth,  the  valleys  so  verdant,  the  rills  of  water  glistened  so 
brightly  and  tinkled  so  sweetly,  that  in  hex  heart  of  hearts  sh* 


1 68  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

IK 

would  have  been  glad  of  a  chance  to  enter  it  and  go  no  more 
out  forever.  To  be  a  sheep  with  a  silken  fleece  in  such  a  flock, 
led  from  hill  to  valley  and  from  valley  to  plain  by  a  tall  shep- 
herd in  white,  with  a  golden  crook  in  his  hand,  was  a  picture 
of  felicity  often  presented  to  her  imagination.  Only  in  her  im- 
agination, however,  could  it  be  entertained.  Mr.  Coates  would 
not  consent  to  any  change  that  would  serve  her  wishes,  and 
Jenny  was  bound  to  her  unfashionable  church  by  a  love  and 
enthusiasm  that  would  make  no  compromise. 

There  was,  therefore,  but  one  way  left  open  for  Mrs.  Coates, 
which  was  to  pretend  to  like  what  she  despised,  and  to  hate 
what  she  loved  above  all  things. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  from 
her  plate  at  the  completion  of  her  grace,  "  that  the  Piskerpa- 
lian  form  of  grace  is  the  most  fashionable,  but " — glowing  be- 
hind her  tureen  and  lifting  her  ladle — "  Mr.  Coates  proverden- 
tially  has  an  impederment,  and  we  have  adopted  the  silent  form 
as  more  convenient  in  our  family.  But  I  must  say  that  I  don't 
understand  why  people  pray  three  times  a  day  that  the  Lord 
will  make  them  thankful  for  what  they  are  about  to  receive. 
Why  don't  they  be  thankful,  and  out  with  it  ?  It  seems  to  me 
that  if  s  just  what  our  good  old  Dr.  Hemenway  used  to  call 
formalism ;  and  I've  said  to  Mr.  Coates,  often  and  often,  '  Mr. 
Coates,'  says  I,  '  whatever  sin  is  laid  to  our  door,  don't  let  it 
be  formalism  ! '  " 

Glezen  caught  Mr.  Coates's  eye,  and  saw  his  mouth  begin  to 
work. 

"  W-what  year  was  that  ?  "  Mr.  Coates  inquired. 

Mrs.  Coates  deemed  it  best  not  to  pay  any  attention  to  this 
skeptical  question,  and  went  on,  sipping  her  soup  between 
sentences  : 

"  The  prettiest  thing  I  know  of  is  having  grace  said  by  an  in- 
nercent  child.  This  is  quite  the  thing,  I'm  told;  and  it  must  be 
very  melting.  I  know  a  little  four-year-old  girl  who  says  grace 
so  beautifully  that  everybody  cries.  I  never  dared  to  try  it  in 
my  own  family — for  fear  of  consequences — you  know — but  it 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  169 

dees  seem  as  if  it  would  be  the  greatest  comfort  if  I  could.     A 
lamb  of  the  flock  is  such  an  interesting  thing  !  " 

"  You  m -might  t-train  a  p-parrot,"  suggested  Mr.  Coates. 

Poor  Miss  Coates  was  red  in  the  face.  She  saw  that  her 
father  and  mother  had  pitted  themselves  against  each  other,  and 
that  Glezen  was  exceedingly  amused.  Mrs.  Coates  saw  this 
too,  and  in  her  own  mind  drew  a  comparison  between  the  staid 
self-restraint  of  Nicholas  and  the  irreverence  of  Glezen,  much 
to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter. 

"Jenny  tells  me,"  said  Mrs.  Coates  to  Nicholas,  "that  you 
are  to  be  in  the  city  during  the  winter." 

"Yes,  I  hope  to  be  here,"  he  replied. 

Then,  moved  by  the  same  curiosity  which  had  exercised  Miss 
Pelton's  mind  the  day  before,  she  said  : 

"  What  flock  do  you  expect  to  jine  ?  We  should  be  delighted 
to  welcome  you  to  our  fold,  although  we  are  at  present  without 
a  shepherd,  and  I  grieve  to  say  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
straying.  I  do  so  long  to  have  a  shepherd  once  more,  for  I 
think  the  picter  of  a  shepherd  with  a  crook,  keeping  his  sheep 
together  on  the  hills,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  I  ever  see ;  but  it 
will  take  a  pretty  strong  crook  to  get  our  flock  together  again, 
and  I  long  to  have  a  man  settled,  and  done  with  it." 

"These  sh-epherds  with  c-crooks  in  their  hands  d-don't 
amount  to  much,"  said  Mr.  Coates.  "  I  p-prefer  one  with  a 
c-crook  in  his  head." 

Mrs.  Coates,  of  course,  didn't  see  the  point,  and  wondered 
what  Glezen  could  find  to  laugh  at.  She  was  painfully  im- 
pressed with  the  frivolous  character  of  this  friend  of  her  friend, 
and  determined  to  warn  the  latter  against  such  associations  at 
the  first  opportunity. 

Then,  forgetting  that  Nicholas  had  not  answered  her  question, 
she  went  on  : 

"  A  vacant  pulpit  seems  to  me  to  be  an  awful  thing.    It  looks 

as  if  it  was  the  very  yawning  of  the  pit  of  destruction,  but  "— 

recurring  to  her  effort  upon  the  future  course  of  Nicholas — 

"don't,  I  beg  of  you,  go  over  to  the  Piskerpalians.     It's  aU 

8 


i  ;o  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

very  nice  when  you  meet  'em  on  the  streets,  with  theii  carriages 
and  their  silks  and  satins,  and  see  their  ministers  in  spick  and 
span  white  gowns  in  the  churches,  and  their  little  boys  tuning 
up  their  amens,  and  their  getting  down  and  getting  up.  I  know 
it's  lovely,  but  it's  very  deceptive  to  the  young.  I  own  up  that 
I  have  felt  drawn  to  'em,  and  there  was  one  time  when,  if  Mr. 
Coates  had  said  the  word,  I  should  have  went  (Nora,  pass  Mr. 
Minturn  the  bread) ;  but  I  was  mercifully  spared  from  embrac- 
ing a  dead  formalism.  It  took  a  good  deal  of  grace  to  stand  by 
the  vacant  pulpit  at  one  time.  (Mr.  Coates,  I'm  sure  Mr. 
Minturn  will  have  a  little  more  of  the  beef.)" 

And  then  Mrs.  Coates  fell  back  in  her  chair,  to  rest  herself 
from  the  contemplation  of  her  old  struggles  with  the  tempta- 
tion to  subside  into  a  dead  formalism. 

Mr.  Coates  had  been  gradually  filling  up  to  the  point  of  ex- 
pression and  here  broke  in  with  : 

"  I'd  r-ather  have  a  v-vacant  pulpit  than  a  v-vacant  m-minis- 
ter  any  time." 

Mrs.  Coates  knew  that  this  was  intended  to  be  a  reflection 
upon  the  retired  old  Dr.  Hemenway,  and  sighed. 

"Whatever  Dr.  Hemenway  was,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  "it 
couldn't  be  laid  to  his  door  that  he  was  a  dead  formalist." 

"  If  I  was  g-going  to  be  d-dead,  I  would  as  s-soon  be  a 
d-dead  f-formalist  as  a  d-dead  goose,"  said  Mr.  Coates. 

"  Mother,"  said  Jenny,  wishing  to  change  the  line  of  con- 
versation, "  Mr.  Minturn  is  going  to  see  what  he  can  do  for  the 
poor.  I'm  sure  you'll  like  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  "  the  poor  ye  have  always  among 
ye  ;  and  I  think  we  have  'em  with  a  vengeance.  It's  nothing 
but  give,  give,  give,  from  morning  to  night,  till  I  get  sick  and 
tired  of  it.  Here's  Jenny,  going  to  mission-schools,  and  visiting 
round  in  the  awfulest  places,  where  no  respectable  girl  ought 
to  go,  and  I'm  so  afraid  she'll  catch  something,  that  it  worries 
my  life  out  of  me.  There  is  Miss  Larkin,  laid  up  for  life  with 
a  fever  she  took  doing  the  same  thing." 

Here  was  a  bit  of  news  for  Nicholas,  who  understood  better 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  171 

than  he  did  before  its  utterance,  the  welcome  which  his  purpose 
had  received  at  her  hands. 

"  Do  you  labor  for  the  poor  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Coates  of 
Glezen,  morally  sure  that  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  that 
she  was  about  to  display  her  daughter's  superiority. 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  do  nothing  else." 

"  Is  it  possible  !     I  thought  you  were  a  lawyer." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am.  That  is  what  I  am  trying  to  make 
the  New  York  people  believe,  any  way;  but,  so  far,  I  have 
confined  my  attention  to  a  single  pauper,  and  it's  all  I  can  do 
to  feed  and  clothe  him." 

"  This  is  very  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Coates.  "  Jenny,  do 
you  hear  this  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother.     The  pauper's  name  is  Glezen." 

Mr.  Coates  was  shaking  in  his  chair,  but  without  a  smile. 

"  Oh  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Coates,  "  you  mean  that  you  are 
taking  care  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  am  trying  to  do,  with  very  indifferent  suc- 
cess," said  Glezen. 

"  Well,  that's  what  we  all  have  to  do  before  we  get  to  be  fore- 
handed," said  Mrs.  Coates,  in  a  benevolent  effort  to  soften 
Glezen' s  sense  of  poverty.  "  You  are  interested,  of  course,  in 
the  poor,"  she  added  suggestively. 

"  Very  much  so,"  Glezen  responded,  "  especially  in  my  awn 
particular  pauper." 

"  But  you  believe  we  owe  duties  to  the  paupers  ?  "  insisted 
Mrs.  Coates. 

"  Yes,"  said  Glezen  ;  "  duties  which  nobody  performs.  Half 
of  them  ought  to  be  tied  to  a  whipping-post  and  whipped.  The 
rest  of  them  ought  to  be  in  jail,  with  the  exception  of  the  chil- 
dren, who  should  be  taken  out  of  their  hands  and  reared  to 
something  better." 

Mrs.  Coates' s  breath  was  nearly  taken  out  of  her  by  this 
most  inhuman  declaration. 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Well,"  said  Glezen,  looking  smilingly  around  upon  the 


172  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

group,  and  seeing  Jenny's  eyes  fixed  very  earnestly  upon  him, 
"  I  mean  exactly  what  I  say.  Half  of  them  ought  to  be  tied  to 
a  whipping-post  and  whipped.  The  city  is  full  of  dead-beats 
who  would  not  work  if  they  could.  They  are  as  utterly  demo- 
ralized as  if  they  were  thieves.  I  never  saw  a  willing  beggar 
yet  who  wasn't  a  liar.  I  never  saw  even  a  child  who  had  beg 
ged,  and  succeeded  in  his  begging  ten  times,  who  would  tell 
the  truth,  when  the  truth  would  serve  his  purpose  just  as  well 
as  a  lie.  There  are  poor  and  worthy  people  I  do  not  doubt, 
God  help  them !  but  the  moment  they  become  paupers  they 
become  liars — I  mean  paupers  who  are  not  only  willing  to  live 
on  charity,  but  anxious  to  be  fed  without  effort.  I  haven't  a 
doubt  that  the  city  would  be  better  off  if  there  wasn't  a  cent 
given  in  charity.  In  our  benevolence  and  pity,  we  are  manu- 
facturing paupers  all  the  time,  and  doing  the  poor  and  our- 
selves, too,  the  crudest  wrong  we  can  do." 

"  You  are  making  out  a  very  pleasant  prospect  for  me,"  said 
Nicholas,  laughing. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said  a  word,"  Glezen  responded,  "  if  I 
had  supposed  you  would  believe  me.  Every  man  has  his 
opinions  and  his  theory,  and  every  benevolent  man  is  bent  on 
trying  his  experiment.  I  want  to  see  you  try  yours." 

"  But,"  said  Nicholas,  growing  earnest  and  excited,  "  there 
must  be  some  cure  for  every  evil  under  the  sun.  The  good 
Lord  hasn't  left  us  face  to  face  with  the  devil  without  a  weapon 
in  our  hands.  It  cannot  be  so." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Glezen,  "  and  I  tell  you  the  weapon 
is  a  horsewhip.  There  is  nothing  that  moves  a  dead-beat  but 
hunger  and  pain.  He  can  always  get  cold  victuals,  so  he  is 
safe  from  starvation ;  but  there  is  absolutely  no  argument  that 
will  induce  him  to  work  but  pain.  There  is  nothing  but  a  whip- 
ping post,  established  in  every  town,  and  faithfully  used,  that 
will  set  him  at  work,  and  keep  him  at  it.  You  may  preach  to 
him  until  the  day  of  doom  ;  you  may  dress  him,  you  may 
coddle  him  ;  you  may  appeal  to  what  you  are  pleased  to  call 
his  manhood,  and  he'll  just  let  you  bore  him  for  what  he  can 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  173 

get  out  of  you.  There  isn't  so  much  manhood  in  one  of  them 
as  there  is  in  a  horse." 

"But  even  Mr.  Coates  believes  in  giving  meat  to  the 
hungry,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  in  a  tone  that  indicated  that  up  to 
the  present  moment,  he  was  the  most  inhuman  person  she  had 
met. 

"  Y-yes,"  Mr.  Coates  responded,  "g-give  'em  the  h-hide  of 
the  animal,  r-raw  !  " 

Glezen  saw  that  he  had,  somehow,  horrified  both  the  old 
woman  and  her  pretty  daughter,  and  so  attempted  to  justify 
himself. 

"  When  I  came  to  the  city,"  he  said,  "  I  was  full  of  a  sort  oi 
chicken-hearted  benevolence.  A  woman  or  a  child  could  no< 
extend  a  hand  to  me  on  the  street,  without  taking  out  of  my 
pocket  whatever  I  might  happen  to  have  there.  I  comforted 
myself  over  the  loss  of  many  a  good  cigar,  with  the  thought  that 
I  had  helped  somebody  to  bread,  when  I  had  only  helped  them 
to  beer,  and  done  my  share  toward  making  them  worse  and 
more  incurable  beggars  than  they  were  before.  They  soon 
found  me  out  in  my  office,  where  they  managed,  by  the  most 
ingenious  lying,  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  hard-earned  dollars.  I 
became  at  last  sore  with  my  sense  of  imposition,  and  sore  with 
my  sacrifices,  and  I've  not  recovered  yet.  I  can  look  a  beggar 
in  the  face  now  without  winking,  and  when  a  dead-beat  pre- 
sents himself  in  my  office,  I  have  only  to  glance  at  my  boot 
and  point  to  the  door,  and  he  understands  me,  and  retires 
without  a  word." 

"  But  you  can't  afford  to  become  distrustful  and  hard-hearted 
lika  that,  you  know,"  said  Nicholas  in  a  tone  of  expostulation. 
"  A  man  can't  afford  to  shut  himself  up  like  that,  and  look 
upon  every  needy  fellow  as  a  scamp." 

"  You  can't  afford  it,  perhaps ;  I  can ;  and  there,  by  the  way, 
lies  the  trouble  in  the  case.  Rich  people,  surrounded  with 
their  comforts,  try  to  make  themselves  more  comfortable  in 
their  minds  by  sharing  a  portion  of  their  wealth  with  the  poor. 
Their  dinners  taste  better  after  having  fed  a  beggar.  Theii 


174  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

nice  clothes  feel  better  after  they  have  given  an  old  garment  to 
a  dead-beat,  who  straightway  pawns  it  for  rum.  Society  can- 
not afford  to  have  the  vice  of  pauperism  nourished  for  the 
small  compensation  of  gratifying  the  benevolent  impulses  of 
the  rich.  Does  pauperism  grow  less  with  their  giving  ?  Is 
it  not  becoming,  with  every  benevolent  effort,  a  great,  over- 
shadowing curse  ?  Pauperism  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on,  and 
it  feeds  on  the  benevolence  of  the  rich,  and  on  benevolence 
which,  like  some  of  our  Christianity,  is  fashionable." 

An  aggressive  person  like  Glezen  was  the  only  power  that 
could  close  the  mouth  of  Mrs.  Coates.  She  was  so  thrown 
out  of  her  accustomed  line  of  thought,  which  ran  among  com- 
monplaces and  conventionalities  and  popular  currents  of  opin- 
ion that,  to  be  met  by  a  decided  and  persistent  protest,  from 
one  who  seemed,  at  least,  to  know  what  he  was  talking  about, 
was  equivalent  to  being  cut  off  from  her  supplies  and  finding 
an  abattis  in  her  pathway.  Like  a  good  many  "old  women 
of  both  sexes,"  theological  and  otherwise,  she  could  not  quite 
comprehend  how  a  man  could  oppose  the  orthodox  opinion 
upon  any  subject,  unless  there  was  a  screw  loose  in  his  moral- 
ities. 

Mr.  Coates  was  happy,  too  happy,  even,  to  attempt  to  talk. 
The  study  of  the  faces  before  him — the  horror  of  Mrs.  Coates, 
the  perplexity  of  Nicholas,  and  the  half  comical,  half  doubtful 
expression  upon  his  daughter's  features,  afforded  him  a  sort 
of  grim  entertainment,  for  he  sympathized  wholly  in  Glezen' s 
opinions,  and  could  have  hugged  him  for  saying  so  well  what 
he  had  felt  to  be  the  truth  for  many  years. 

Miss  Coates  had  a  burden  upon  her  heart,  and  it  would  have 
been  most  unlike  her  to  conceal  it.  Her  eyes  were  half  filled 
with  tears  (for  she  had  been  a  patient  and  enthusiastic  worker 
among  the  poor)  as  she  turned  to  Glezen  and  said : 

"  Notwithstanding  all,  Mr.  Glezen,  there  are  worthy  and 
truthful  poor  people  who  need  our  help,  and  have  a  claim 
upon  our  Christian  benevolence.  There  are  innocent  little 
children  who  cannot  help  themselves,  even  if  they  would,  who 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  175 

are  to  be  educated  and  clothed  and  fed.  'Inasmuch  as  ye 
have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye 
have  done  it  unto  me.'  Sometimes,  when  I  have  been  dis- 
couraged with  my  woik,  I  have  thought  of  this ;  and  I  wonder 
now  whether  you  and  the  Master  would  quite  agree  on  this 
matter  of  charity.  Almost  every  year  I  hear  of  some  poor 
mother  who,  with  her  little  ones,  has  starved  to  death  for  the 
lack  of  the  bread  which  it  would  have  been  so  easy  for  us  to 
give,  and  it  seems  terrible." 

Glezen  was  touched.  "  I  don't  think  you  and  I  disagree 
on  this  matter,"  he  said.  "  God  forbid  that  I  should  deny  the 
bread  that  keeps  body  and  soul  together,  to  even  an  unworthy 
woman.  I  would  give  her  work  to  do,  however,  and  try  to 
foster  and  not  kill  her  sense  of  womanly  independence.  If 
she  is  sick,  I  would  send  her  to  a  hospital.  As  for  the  children, 
I  would  educate  them  and  put  them  to  work.  I  never  hear, 
however,  of  a  woman  who  starves  with  her  children,  rather 
than  to  descend  into  pauperism,  without  feeling  as  if  I  would  like 
to  fall  down  and  worship  the  poor  emaciated  body  she  leaves 
behind  her.  She  has  realized  what  pauperism  is,  and  has  pre- 
ferred death  for  herself  and  her  little  ones.  Such  a  woman  is 
a  true  heroine,  who  deserves  a  monument.  All  that  I  insist 
on  is  this,  that  there  is  no  cure  for  a  genuine  able-bodied 
pauper  but  pain.  It  is  the  only  motive  that  will  make  him 
earn  his  living.  Beyond  that,  there  is  no  cure  for  pauperism 
but  to  stop  raising  and  nursing  paupers.  The  law  ought  to 
take  every  child  of  a  pauper,  and  put  him  where  he  will  be  in 
no  danger  of  becoming  a  pauper.  It  is  a  matter  that  ought 
not  to  be  left  to  competing  schemes  of  benevolence.  I  tell 
you  the  whole  matter  is  rotten  to  the  bottom." 

"  I  shall  have  to  take  you  around  with  me  next  winter,  and 
convert  you,"  said  Miss  Coates,  with  a  smile. 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Glezen,  extending  his  hand  in  token 
of  his  willingness  to  confirm  the  bargain  ;  and  the  bargain  was 
confirmed. 

The  dinner  ended,  all  retired  to  the  drawing-room.     There 


176  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

stood  the  open  piano,  and  the  temptation  presented  to  Glezen 
was  irresistible.  He  sat  down  and  played,  in  his  magnifcent 
way,  whatever  came  into  his  mind.  Miss  Coates,  who  had 
studied  him  during  his  talk  at  the  table,  and  been  in  no  little 
perplexity  about  him,  .found  in  music  a  point  of  sympathy 
which,  in  a  moment,  made  her  wholly  at  home  with  him.  She 
drew  a  chair  to  the  piano,  and  they  talked  of  music  together, 
while  his  hands,  as  if  they  needed  neither  direction  nor  atten- 
tion, swept  the  keys  through  changing  themes  of  harmony. 
Both  forgot  at  once  that,  besides  themselves,  there  was  another 
human  being  in  the  house.  Glezen  saw  a  piece  of  music  be- 
hind the  rack,  and  took  it  out.  It  was  a  song,  and  as  he 
finished  the  introduction,  Miss  Coates  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
sang.  When  the  song  was  concluded,  Glezen  shouted  "Bravo  !  " 
It  was  wonderful  how  quickly  these  two  persons  had  become 
intimate  friends.  Music  was  a  language  which  both  under- 
stood, and  about  which  they  had  no  differences. 

Mrs.  Coates,  meantime,  had  arrived  at  a  new  apprehension 
of  Glezen's  value.  He  could  help  to  show  off  Jenny  to 
Nicholas.  For  that  all-important  purpose,  she  could  tolerate 
him ;  and  as  he  and  Jenny  went  on,  from  one  triumph  to 
another,  she  even  thought  that  if  he  were  not  poor,  and 
Nicholas  should  prove  to  be  hopelessly  tied  to  a  victim  of 
the  numb  palsy,  she  might  consent  to  an  arrangement  which — • 
but  this  was  only  a  suggestion  ! 

She  drew  her  chair  to  the  side  of  Nicholas,  with  the  benevo- 
lent purpose  of  assisting  him  to  a  proper  appreciation  of  her 
daughter's  gifts  and  accomplishments.  She  did  this  in  a  low 
tone  of  voice,  so  as  not  to  embarrass  the  performances,  but  she 
was  not  entirely  beyond  the  hearing  of  her  husband. 

"Jenny  has  had  the  best  advantages,"  said  Mrs.  Coates. 
"  A  hundred  dollars  a  quarter — quarter  after  quarter — with  the 
best  of  teachers,  and  such  troubles  as  I've  had  with  them  fel- 
lows !  They  was  always  getting  attached,  and  making  fools  of 
themselves  over  Jenny,  and  bothering  her  life  out  of  her.  I 
knew  it  was  the  loaves  and  fishes  that  they  were  after,  but  I  give 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  177 

em  to  understand  that  there  wasn't  any  loaves  and  fishes  for  'em 
in  these  parts !  What  do  you  think  I  saw  in  this  very  room  one 
morning,  as  plain  as  I  see  you  now  ?  I  heard  the  piano  stop, 
and  so  I  just  walked  in — for  I  was  always  on  the  lookout  for 
dangers — and  found  a  man  on'his  knees  by  Jenny's  side,  a  per- 
tending  that  he  couldn't  see  the  notes  so  high  up.  '  Get  up,' 
says  I  to  him.  Says  he,  'Mrs.  Coates,  I  can't  see  the  notes 
when  I'm  standing.'  Says  I  to  him,  '  I  understand  the  kind  of 
notes  you  are  trying  to  see.  Get  up,'  says  I,  '  and  resume  the 
persition  which  your  Maker  intended  you  to  ockerpy.'  Says  I, 
'You  are  paid  by  the  quarter,  and  a  hundred  dollars  a  quarter 
is  all  you'll  get  in  this  house.'  Oh,  you  never  see  a  man  so  cut 
up  as  he  was." 

Mr.  Coates  had  heard  it  all,  and  gave  signs  of  a  characteristic 
explosion. 

"M-Mrs.  C-Coates,"  said  he,  "b-buys  everything  by  the 
q-quarter,  and  c-cuts  it  up  to  suit  herself." 

"  Well,  I  cut  him  up  to  suit  myself,  anyway,"  said  Mrs.  Coates, 
with  a  decided  and  triumphant  air. 

"  Y-yes,"  said  Mr.  Coates,  "  she  was  afraid  he'd  d-damage 
the  sh-in  bone." 

Nicholas,  who  had  kept  himself  under  the  severest  restraint 
during  the  evening,  was  obliged  to  yield  to  this,  and  could 
not  withhold  his  laughter;  but  he  was  compelled  to  sit 
for  an  hour  and  hear  the  easy-going  tongue  of  his  hostess 
ring  the  changes  upon  Jenny's  perfections,  and  the  costly 
sacrifices  which  had  been  made  in  the  long  process  of  their 
acquisition. 

At  last  he  went  to  Glezen  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder, 
by  way  of  hinting  that  it  was  time  for  them  to  make  their 
adieus. 

On  the  whole,  they  had  had  a  pleasant  evening,  and  matters 
had  taken  exactly  the  turn  that  Nicholas  would  have  desired. 
His  friend  Glezen  had  been  drawn  into  serious  talk,  and 
though  the  opinions  he  advanced  were  not  in  harmony  with 
his  own.  he  had  impressed  himself  upon  the  family  as  on« 
8* 


178  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

who  not  only  had  opinions,  but  possessed,  as  well,  both  the 
boldness  and  the  ability  to  express  them.  Above  all,  he  had 
seen  a  point  of  delightful  sympathy  established  between  him 
and  Miss  Coates,  which  could  not  fail  to  bring  them  together 
again. 

Glezen  was  delighted — particularly  so  with  the  old  man  and 
his  daughter.  Scenes  that  to  Nicholas  were  full  of  embarrass- 
ment were  to  Glezen  as  good  as  a  play. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said  to  Nicholas,  "  I  wouldn't  have  one 
of  those  people  changed  by  so  much  as  the  shading  of  a  hair  ? 
The  old  man  is  a  dry  old  wag  that  I  should  never  tire  of;  the 
old  woman  is  an  inexhaustible  mine  of  the  most  uncommon 
foolishness,  and " 

"  And  what  of  the  daughter  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  won't  talk  about  her,  I  guess.  But  doesn't  she 
sing  well  ?  And  isn't  the  combination  the  most  remarkable  you 
ever  dreamed  of?  1  believe  I  should  like  to  live  in  that  family. 
Every  meal  would  be  a  comedy." 

"  And  to  me,"  said  Nicholas,  "  it  would  be  a  torture." 

"  Yes,  there's  the  difference." 

They  were  walking  arm  in  arm,  Glezen  accompanying  Nicho- 
las to  his  hotel. 

"  Do  you  realize  that  you  have  given  me  a  tremendous  set- 
back to-night  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  do  it.  You  know  that  if  anybody  in 
the  world  has  reason  to  sympathize  with  the  poor,  it  is  I.  But 
I  have  come  to  my  own  conclusions,  and  I  hope  you'll  take 
nothing  on  trust,  and  come  to  yours.  There's  an  admirable 
field  for  study  here,  and  you  have  the  means  to  indulge  in  it. 
Come  and  try  it,  and  I'll  help  you  all  I  can." 

The  next  morning  Nicholas  devoted  to  business  and  to  calls, 
the  last  of  which  was  given  to  Miss  Larkin,  to  whom  he  impart- 
ed his  impressions  of  the  dinner  at  the  Coateses,  with  the  hopes 
he  had  built  upon  the  introduction  of  his  friend  Glezen  to  Miss 
Coates.  They  talked  of  this  and  of  his  plans  for  the  autumn 
and  winter,  and  then  he  went  home  to  dream  of  a  season  of 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  179 

labors  and  companionships  the  most  delightful  that  anticipation 
had  ever  presented  to  him. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  can't  make  anything  out  of  that  Glezen," 
said  Mrs.  Coates,  shaking  her  head  after  his  departure.  "A 
lawyer  wl  o  can  play  the  piano  seems  to  me  like  a — like  a — 
contradiction  of  terms.  I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  be  worth  a 
red  cent.  I  should  never  feel  as  if  I  could  consent " 

"  Mother  !  "  exclaimed  Jenny,  who  had  a  presentiment  of 
what  was  coming  next. 

Father  and  daughter  exchanged  pleasant  and  significant 
glances. 

"  Oh,  you  may  look  at  each  other,  but  that  is  the  way  I  feel 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Coates;  "and  it's  what  mothers  have  to  con- 
sider, sooner  or  later" — as  if  she  had  considered  anything  else 
for  the  previous  five  years  1 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

IN  WHICH  MR.  BENSON  HANDLES  ONE  ROBBER   VERY    CLEVERLY, 
AND  NICHOLAS  CONFOUNDS  ANOTHER  BY  TELEGRAPH. 

THE  remainder  of  the  summer  passed  swiftly  away,  and  the 
autumn  found  Nicholas  in  the  city,  installed  in  apartments  not 
far  from  the  lodgings  of  his  friend.  The  house  at  Ottercliff 
was  closed,  or  only  occupied  for  protection.  Mrs.  Fleming 
went  to  her  friends  for  the  season,  and  Pont  was  with  his 
master. 

Among  the  young  people  with  whom  our  story  has  made  the 
reader  acquainted,  there  were  consultations  at  various  times 
and  places,  about  a  winter  campaign  of  benevolence,  which 
was  to  be  entered  upon  with  the  onset  of  cold  weather. 
Nicholas  came  and  went  at  liberty,  in  his  calls  upon  Miss 
Larkin,  and  always  found  himself  treated  by  the  servants  with 
almost  obsequious  consideration.  Glezen,  for  the  first  time, 
was  full  of  business.  He  found  a  valuable  friend  in  Mr. 
Coates,  who,  having  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  threw  a  large 
amount  of  professional  work  in  his  way — work  which,  un- 
happily for  the  country,  grew  more  abundant  with  every  pass- 
ing month,  for  it  had  entered  upon  a  period  of  financial  de- 
pression which  was  destined  to  shake  every  man's  foundation 
to  the  lowest  stone,  and  to  level  vast  multitudes  and  vast  for- 
tunes in  a  common  ruin. 

Mr.  Benson  had  seen  the  cloud  arise.  At  first  it  was  no 
bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  but  it  was  large  enough  to  attract 
his  eye,  and  he  comprehended  the  nature  of  the  menace  that 
it  bore,  as  it  rose  higher  and  spread  itself  more  broadly  in  the 
public  view.  It  was  time  for  him,  and  for  all  men,  to  trim 
their  sails  and  prepare  for  the  approaching  storm ;  but  the 
reluctance  to  make  sacrifices  acted  upon  him  as  it  did  upon 


NICHOLAS  M1NTURN.  181 

others,  and  he  resorted  to  temporizing  expedients.  He  had 
invested  the  money  that  had  been  confided  to  his  hands  in 
real  estate,  held  at  inflated  values,  and  in  bonds  whose  sound 
ness  was  undoubted  when  they  were  purchased,  but  which  be- 
gan to  shake  in  the  market.  The  poor  who  had  confided  to 
him  their  little  all  would  not  only  need  the  prompt  payment  of 
their  interest,  but  would,  in  many  instances,  demand  for  their 
necessities  the  return  of  their  principal. 

Mr.  Benson  was  the  president  of  the  Poor  Man's  Savings 
Bank.  He  had  been  chosen  to  this  responsible  trust  because 
the  poor  men  of  the  city  had  unbounded  faith  in  him ;  and  he 
had  been  proud  of  the  distinction.  Some  of  his  most  self- 
complacent  and  satisfactory  hours  he  had  spent  every  day  in 
this  institution,  watching  the  working  men  and  women  as  they 
came  in  to  deposit  their  savings,  smiling  upon  them  benignant- 
ly,  and  offering  them  kind  and  encouraging  words.  To  see 
Mr.  Benson,  and  get  a  kind  word  from  him,  almost  paid  them 
for  their  labors  and  self-denials  ;  and  they  took  away  a  memory 
of  his  presence  and  recognition  as  a  guaranty  of  security. 

But  the  time  came  when  the  savings  banks  began  to  be  sus- 
pected. Runs  were  made  upon  one  after  another,  some  of 
which  exhausted  resources  and  shut  doors,  and  bore  faithless 
conductors  down  to  infamy.  But  the  Poor  Man's  Bank  stood 
stanch  and  firm,  for  Mr.  Benson  was  there. 

An  unexpected  result  to  Mr.  Benson  of  the  disasters  that 
had  attended  the  savings  banks,  was  an  entirely  fresh  install- 
ment of  private  deposits.  He  found  that  poor  women  would 
trust  him,  even  more  readily  than  they  would  trust  the  bank 
over  which  he  presided.  They  had  ceased  to  have  faith  in 
institutions,  and  they  were  obliged  to  fasten  it  upon  a  man. 
Many  would  walk  by  the  Poor  Man's  Savings  Bank,  and  go 
directly  to  Mr.  Benson's  office  or  his  house,  and  place  their 
little  fortunes  in  his  hands  as  confidingly  as  if  he  were  the 
incarnation  of  financial  wisdom,  power,  and  all  the  diviner  vir- 
tues. He  was  independent — at  least,  that  was  his  attitude—- 
in the  presence  of  his  depositors.  He  would  give  no  security 


1 82  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

except  his  note.  If  they  were  not  content  with  this,  they 
could  take  their  money  away.  He  was  not  anxious  to  extend 
his  responsibilities  at  such  a  time  ;  but  the  money  was  always 
left,  and,  as  he  would  not  purchase  securities  on  a  falling  mar- 
ket, he  found  himself  furnished  with  a  fund  of  ready  cash. 

In  his  apprehensions  concerning  the  future,  and  in  a  some- 
what debased  moral  tone,  of  which  even  he  had  become  dimly 
conscious,  it  did  not  occur  to  Mr.  Benson  that  he  ought  to  in- 
vest this  money  so  that  he  himself  might  become  secure  on  be- 
half of  his  depositors.  He  had  given  his  notes  for  the  money. 
He  accounted  himself,  if  not  a  rich,  still,  a  sufficiently  respon- 
sible man.  So  the  money  went  into  the  aggregate  of  his 
available  funds,  to  be  used  for  any  purpose  that  his  necessity 
or  convenience  might  require. 

As  the  weeks  went  on,  and  values  shrank  apace,  until,  in  real 
estate,  they  invaded  the  margin  of  his  mortgages,  and  interest 
on  loans  and  bonds  was  defaulted  on  every  hand,  Mr.  Benson 
saw,  with  keen  distress,  that  the  fabric  he  had  reared  was 
tumbling  about  his  ears.  Still  he  was  expected  to  pay  his 
interest.  Not  only  this,  but,  as  men  ceased  to  earn  money, 
they  began  to  call  for  then-  little  loans.  He  must  either  go  to 
protest  and  confess  himself  beaten,  or  meet  the  demands  as 
they  came.  He  turned  off  some  as  he  had  already  turned  off 
Talking  Tim,  the  pop-corn  man,  by  telling  them  that  their 
money  was  invested  for  a  term  of  years ;  but  many  were  needy 
and  importunate,  and  were  not  to  be  denied.  The  money  was 
in  his  hands.  Indeed,  it  was  accumulating  day  by  day,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  use  it.  Why  should  he  not  do  so,  as  he  was 
paying,  or  had  agreed  to  pay,  interest  on  it  ? 

Of  one  thing  he  was  certain  ;  if  there  ever  was  a  time  when 
he  should  attend  scrupulously  to  his  duties,  it  was  then.  Per- 
haps he  was  conscious  of  the  double  motive  that  actuated  him — 
perhaps  not.  He  would  do  his  duty  to  God  and  man,  that  God 
and  man  might  make  a  fitting  return.  He  would  do  his  duty 
in  the  sight  of  men,  that  they  might  not  suspect  that  Mr. 
Benson  was  in  trouble ;  or,  if  he  were,  that  he  would  employ 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  183 

any  illegitimate  or  irregular  n:eans  of  getting  out  of  it.  He 
was  invariably  in  his  seat  at  church.  His  place  in  the  weekly 
prayer-meeting  was  never  vacant.  He  was  active  and  influen- 
tial in  all  the  regular  Christian  charities.  He  doubled  his  bene- 
factions. People  spoke  of  him  as  very  much  "softened"  by 
his  experiences  of  danger  and  rescue,  and  looked  upon  him, 
howsoever  "  softened  "  he  might  be,  as  a  sort  of  bulwark  against 
the  incoming  tide  of  public  adversity.  His  example  was  quoted 
as  that  of  one  who  had  neither  lost  his  heart  nor  his  head.  One 
evening,  when  his  affairs  and  prospects  were  looking  the 
blackest,  and  he  was  morbidly  contemplating  them  and  schem- 
ing for  relief,  his  man-servant  knocked  at  his  door  with  the 
announcement  that  a  gentleman  had  called,  and  wanted  to  see 
him. 

"  Do  you  say  he  is  a  gentleman  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Not  exactly,"  the  servant  replied  with  a  puzzled  smile. 
"  He  is  a  bad-looking  sort  of  a  man,  but  I  shouldn't  say  he 
was  downright  poor.  He  has  never  been  here  before." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  !    I  know  I've  never  seen  him  before." 

It  was  a  time  when  Mr.  Benson  shrank  from  meeting  either 
"  gentlemen  "  or  poor  people  whom  he  had  seen  before.  Few 
of  these  had  favors  for  him  at  this  time.  All  wanted  something 
of  him.  This  man,  if  a  stranger,  must  be  either  a  beggar  of  a 
depositor.  If  the  former,  he  would  make  short  work  with  him  ; 
if  the  latter,  he  had  come  opportunely. 

"  Show  him  up,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

He  wheeled  his  chair  around  to  meet  the  stranger,  who  soon 
appeared,  hesitating  to  enter,  and  peering  cautiously  into  the 
room,  as  if  there  might  be  others  present  whom  he  would  not 
like  to  see. 

"  Come  in,  come'  in,  sir  ! "  said  Mr.  Benson  in  his  quick, 
business  tone. 

The  man  entered  and  made  a  bow. 

"  Hope  I  see  you  well,  sir,"  he  said,  and  stood  waiting  for 
an  invitation  to  sit  down. 


184  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Mr.  Benson  looked  him  up  and  down,  and  all  ov  er.  A  huge, 
hulking  fellow  he  was,  comfortably  dressed  enough,  but  carry- 
ing a  pair  of  restless,  suspicious  eyes  in  a  villainous,  grizzly  face. 
There  was  a  hang-dog  expression  in  his  whole  personality  which 
no  amount  of  the  easy  bravado  that  he  endeavored  to  assume 
could  dissemble.  Mr.  Benson,  with  his  quick  instinct  and 
practiced  eye,  knew  at  once  that  the  man  was  a  dangerous 
and  desperate  rogue.  He  could  not  guess  his  business,  but  he 
was  on  his  guard,  and  determined  to  let  the  fellow  come  to  his 
errand  at  his  leisure. 

"  Well,  sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  What  brought  you 
tome?" 

"  I'm  a-comin'  to  it  in  my  own  way,"  replied  the  man,  dog- 
gedly. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  hear  you." 

"  I'm  a-comin'  to  it  in  my  own  way.  '  He's  a  hard  worker  and 
a  slow  saver  ' — that's  what  the  boys  say  about  Captain  Hank, 
which  it  is  the  name  they  call  me.  '  He's  a  hard  worker  and  a 
slow  saver,  but  what  he  saves  he  lays  up,  an'  he  knows  where 
it  is,  and  he  asks  no  questions  of  nobody,  an'  he  takes  what 
comes  of  it ' — that's  what  the  boys  say  about  Captain  Hank." 

"Well?" 

"  An'  he  asks  no  questions,"  said  the  man.  "There's  a  rule 
for  you.  Eh  ?  Pretty  good  rule,  ain't  it  ?  Eh  ?  " 

"  That  depends "  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"No,  it  don't  depend,"  said  the  man  huskily,  bringing  his  fist 
down  upon  his  knee.  "  You're  all  right ;  I'm  all  right.  Eh  ? 
How's  that  ?  Ef  a  feller  should  come  in  here,  as  we're  a-settin' 
and  attendin'  to  our  business  in  a  reg'lar  way,  and  should  say, 
'Captain  Hank,  you  aint  all  right,  and  the  General  aint  all 
right,'  I  should  tell  'im  to  git  ready  to  swaller  'is  teeth.  Eh  ?  I 
should  tell  'im  that  I'm  a  hard-workin'  an'  a  slow-savin'  man, 
who  don't  take  no  odds  of  nobody.  Eh  ?  " 

"Well,  Captain  Hank, — if  that's  your  name, — this  isn't  busi- 
ness, you  know,"  said  Mr.  Benson  with  a  faint  and  deprecating 
smile. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  i8f 

"  An'  ef  a  feller  should  come  in  here  where  we're  a-settin'  an* 
doin'  our  business  in  a  reg'lar  way,  an'  tell  me  that  my  name 
wasn't  Captain  Hank,  I  should  break  'is  jaw  for  him.  Eh  ?" 

The  harsh,  brutal  bully  was  a  strange  presence  in  Mr.  Ben- 
son's library.  Every  word  he  uttered  grated  on  the  model 
man's  sensibilities,  but  he  preserved  an  appearance  of  good- 
nature, and  determined  to  see  the  matter  through,  to  whatever 
end  it  might  lead. 

"  Captain  Hank  don't  trust  nobody,"  continued  the  man, 
"  and  when  a  feller  mixes  into  his  business,  he  jest  follers  'ira. 
Eh  ?  That's  right,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  That  depends "  said  Mr.  Benson  again. 

"  No,  it  don't  depend.  That's  where  you're  wrong.  It  don't 
depend.  Now,  what  do  you  s'pose  a  hard-workin'  and  a  slow- 
savin'  man  like  me  would  do  with  his  money — a  man  as  trusts 
nobody  ?  What  would  he  do  with  it,  eh  ?  What  would  he 
naturally  do  with  it  ?  There's  a  question,  now — a  man  as 
works  hard  and  saves  slow,  and  trusts  nobody :  Eh  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know — keep  it  in  his  pocket,  perhaps," 
said  Mr.  Benson. 

"There's  where  you're  wrong.  He  wouldn't  do  it.  You 
wouldn't  do  that  yourself.  You  know  you  wouldn't.  Eh  ?" 

"  Then  perhaps  you'll  inform  me,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  begin- 
ning to  fidget  in  his  chair. 

"A  hard  worker  and  a  slow  saver  puts  his  money  into  a 
bond,"  said  Captain  Hank,  in  measured  words — "  into  a  bond 
as  draws  interest  from  cowpons.  Then  he  knows  where  it  is, 
and  its  nobody's  business  and  no  questions  asked." 

"  Well,  you  have  a  bond,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Did  I  say  I  had  a  bond  ?     Eh  ?  "  inquired  Captain  Hank. 

"  No,  you  didn't  say  so.     I  took  it  for  granted." 

"  When  I  say  I've  got  a  bond,  it  will  be  time  enough  for  you 
to  say  I've  got  a  bond.  If  anybody  should  come  to  me  and 
say  :  '  Captain  Hank,  you've  got  a  bond,'  I  should  drop  'im, 
and  tell  'im  that  I  took  no  odds  of  nobody." 

"  Captain  Hank,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  with  a  measure  of  de/ 


1 86  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

erence  for  the  bully  before  him,  "  you  must  see,  I'm  sure,  that 
you  are  wasting  my  time,  and  that  I  must  insist  on  your  mak- 
ing known  your  business,  and  leaving  me  to  attend  to  my  own." 

Captain  Hank  distinctly  saw  this,  and  a  little  doubtful  still 
whether  he  had  sufficiently  impressed  his  interlocutor  with  the 
danger  of  dealing  doubtfully  with  a  man  who  "  took  no  odds 
of  nobody,"  proceeded  to  say  : 

"  General,  I'm  a  man  as  asks  no  favors,  but  I'm  hard  up,  an' 
I've  got  a  bond.  I  don't  want  to  part  with  it,  but  I  want  to 
raise  the  needful  on  it — jest  enough  to  git  me  through  the  hard 
times,  eh?  It's  a  good  bond,  and  it's  worth  a  thousand  of 'em 
in  your  money  or  any  other  feller's." 

"  I'm  not  buying  bonds  now,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  And  I'm  not  a-sellin'  bonds,"  responded  Captain  Hank. 
"  Ef  any  feller  was  to  say  to  me,  '  Captain  Hank,  you're  a- 
sellin'  bonds,'  I'd  maul  'im,  eh  ?  I'd  stomp  on  'im,  eh  ?" 

"I  haven't  said  you  were  selling  bonds.  You've  sold  none 
to  me ;  and  you  will  sell  none  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"That's  squar*,"  said  Captain  Hank,  in  a  complimentary 
tone,  and  then  he  said :  "  What  do  you  say  to  advancin'  three 
hundred  of 'em?" 

"  I  haven't  seen  your  bond  yet." 

"You  can  see  it  in  my  hands.  I'm  a  hard-workin'  and  slow- 
savin'  man,  as  trusts  nobody.  '  He  slaves  and  he  saves ' — 
that's  what  the  boys  say  about  Captain  Hank.  '  Captain  Hank 
is  a  man  as  asks  no  questions,  and  takes  no  odds,  and  slaves 
and  saves' — that's  what  they  say,  and  let  'em  say  it.  I  don't 
care  who  says  it.  Anybody  can  say  it,  eh?  It  aint  a  bad 
character  to  have,  is  it  ?  Eh  ? ;' 

"  I  shall  see  your  bond  on  my  table  if  I  see  it  at  all,"  said 
Mr.  Benson,  decidedly. 

Captain  Hank  hesitated  a  moment,  then  took  his  hat  from 
the  floor,  slowly  turned  the  lining  inside  out,  and  discovered 
a  long,  greasy  paper.  This  he  carefully  unfolded,  until  he 
reached  a  large,  clean  envelope.  Opening  this,  he  held  the 
precious  bond  in  his  hand. 


NICHOLAS  'MINTURN.  187 

"  This  is  the  dockyment,"  he  said,  "  and  I  aint  going  to  be 
hard  on  ye,  General,  but  you'll  parding  me  if  I  stand  by  you 
when  you're  a  lookin'  at  it." 

He  advanced  and  placed  it  on  the  table  before  Mr.  Benson, 
who  took  it  in  his  hand,  while  the  fellow  stood  closely  beside 
him. 

"It's  a  genuine  bond,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "and  a  valuable 
one." 

"In  course  it  is,"  said  Captain  Hank.  "No  hard-workin' 
and  slow-savin'  man  would  take  up  with  a  bad  bond.  Would 
he  ?  Eh  ?  " 

"  You  want  three  hundred  dollars  on  it  ?  I  shall  charge  you 
extra  interest.  Money  is  at  a  premium  now,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Extra  and  be ,"  growled  Captain  Hank.     "  I  don't 

stand  on  extras." 

Then  he  took  his  bond,  put  it  into  its  envelope,  and  resumed 
his  seat. 

"  You  shall  have  the  money,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "  Excuse 
L-\C  a  moment." 

Mr.  Benson  went  out  of  the  room  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him.  The  rogue  watched  him  closely,  but  he  did  not  notice 
that  Mr.  Benson,  on  opening  his  door,  pulled  out  the  key 
and  took  it  with  him.  He  was  absent  perhaps  two  minutes, 
when  he  returned  with  a  package  of  money  in  his  hand,  from 
which  he  quietly  counted  out  the  sum  that  Captain  Hank 
wanted.  Then  he  wrote  a  note  for  Captain  Hank  to  sign, 
with  a  memorandum  that  the  bond  was  taken  as  collateral 
security. 

"  It's  all  squar',  General  ?  "  said  the  Captain. 

"  All  square." 

The  note  was  clumsily  signed,  the  bond  was  passed  ir>to  Mr. 
Benson's  hands,  and  the  borrower  received  his  money,  which 
he  stowed  away  carefully  in  the  place  from  which  he  had  taken 
the  bond. 

"  Our  business  is  not  quite  completed  yet,"  said  Mr.  Benson, 
"  Sit  down  a  moment." 


1 88  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

When  the  rogue  had  taken  his  seat,  Mr.  Benson  moved  a  little 
box  at  his  side,  and  disclosed  a  telegraphic  instrument.  The 
man  began  to  look  suspicious,  and  was  about  to  rise  to  his  feet, 
when  Mr.  Benson  raised  and  cocked  a  pistol. 

"  Stir,  sir,  and  you  are  a  dead  man  !  1  have  a  few  things  to 
say  to  you,  and  I  choose  to  say  them  with  these  precautions 
about  me.  This  telegraph  communicates  with  a  police  office 
not  ten  rods  from  here.  The  door  behind  you  is  locked  from 
the  outside,  and  there  are  two  men  there  who  wait  my  bidding. 
If  you  come  nearer  to  me,  I  shall  not  only  fire  upon  you,  but  I 
shall  touch  the  telegraph  at  the  same  instant.  You  see  my 
finger  is  on  the  knob.  Your  only  chance  of  safety  is  in  sitting 
perfectly  still,  answering  my  questions,  and  doing  what  I  tell 
you  to  do." 

The  man  glared  upon  him  like  a  wild  beast,  and  tried  to  get 
his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

"  If  you  take  a  pistol  from  your  pocket,  you  will  be  in  the 
hands  of  the  police  in  one  minute,  so  take  out  your  hand,  and 
show  me  the  inside  of  it. " 

The  fellow  slowly  and  reluctantly  drew  out  and  exposed  his 
hand.  He  grew  pale,  and  his  whole  frame  trembled  as  if  he 
were  in  a  fit  of  the  ague. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice,  as  if 
the  muscles  of  his  throat  had  been  snapped,  and  he  were  speak- 
ing through  their  loose  ends. 

"  I  have  one  of  your  bonds  ;  now,  I  want  the  other 
twenty-four.  I  want  them  all.  I  want  them  before  you  leave 
the  house." 

"  I  haint  got  any  twenty-four  bonds.  I'm  a  hard -work  in' 
and  slow-savin'  man." 

"  I  understand  all  that.  I  know  just  how  you  work,  and 
how  you  save." 

"  I  haint  got  them,  'pon  honor." 

"  You  know  you  lie,  and  now  you  may  as  well  understand 
that  I  have  you  entirely  in  my  power,  and  that  I'm  going  to 
have  the  bonds.  If  you  resist,  or  hesitate  until  I  get  tired,  I'll 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  189 

touch  this   knob,   and  have  you  in  the   lock-up  within  five 
minutes." 

"  My  God  ! "  exclaimed  the  man,  grinding  his  teeth  together 
with  such  a  noise  as  he  might  have  made,  had  Mr.  Benson's 
bones  been  between  them. 

"  You're  givin'  me  devilish  hard  papers,  General,"  said  he. 

"  Then  give  the  hard  papers  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  with 
grim  humor. 

"  What  if  I  do  ?  "  inquired  Captain  Hank.  ^ 

"  I  shall  let  you  go,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "  and  if  I  ever  want 
you,  I  shall  find  you.  Such  a  man  as  you  are  cannot  be  un- 
known to  the  police,  and  I  can  describe  you  to  a  hair.  Your 
future  will  depend  very  much  upon  yourself." 

"  I  reckon  you  might  share  'em  with  me?"  suggested  Cap- 
tain Hank,  attempting  an  insinuating  smile. 

"  Do  I  look  and  act  like  a  man  who  shares  plunder  with 
thieves  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  said  the  rogue  with  a  bitter  oath.  "  You  take  the 
whole  of  it." 

"  Very  well !     Out  with  the  whole  of  it." 

"  Is  this  honor  bright  ?  Can  I  git  out  o'  that  door,  and  have 
a  fair  start  ?  "  inquired  the  man. 

"  Yes  ;  toss  the  bundle  here." 

The  man  slowly  drew  from  his  coat  pocket  a  large  package. 
Mr.  Benson  dropped  his  pistol,  but  kept  his  finger  on  the  tele- 
graphic instrument.  Captain  Hank  tossed  him  the  package, 
which  he  caught,  and  tore  open  with  his  free  hand.  Then  keep* 
ing  his  eye  on  his  prisoner,  he  counted  the  bonds  until  they 
were  all  told. 

"  Open  the  door,  there  !  "  shouted  Mr.  Benson. 

The  door  flew  open. 

"  Show  this  man  to  the  street,"  he  said  to  the  two  servants, 
who  waited  upon  the  outside. 

He  still  sat  with  one  finger  on  the  instrument,  and  with  his 
pistol  within  instantaneous  reach,  and,  thus  sitting,  saw  his  visi 
tor  disappear,  and  heard  the  street  door  close  behind  him 


,190  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Then  he  walked  to  the  library  door,  withdrew  the  key  from 
the  outside,  and  locked  himself  in.  He  had  been  under  an  ex- 
citement  that  exhausted  his  nervous  force.  He  felt  as  if  his  life 
had  been  drained  out  of  him.  He  threw  himself  upon  a  lounge, 
where  he  rested  for  half  an  hour,  thinking  over  the  strange  scene 
through  which  he  had  passed. 

Then  he  rose,  went  to  his  table,  and  counted  again  the  pack- 
age  of  bonds  which  had  so  strangely  come  into  his  possession. 
Whose  were  they  ?  Did  he  know  ? 

No,  he  did  not  know.  He  was  sure  that  they  were  stolen 
bonds,  that  they  corresponded  in  amount  with  the  package 
taken  from  Nicholas  on  the  night  of  the  Ottercliff  robbery,  that 
they  were  made  by  the  same  company,  and  were  of  the  same 
denomination.  Further  than  this  he  knew  nothing.  What 
should  he  do  with  them  ?  What  proof  could  Nicholas  give  that 
they  were  his  ?  Would  the  present  holder  be  warranted  in  sur- 
rendering them  to  him  without  proof?  Certainly  he  would  not. 

But  why  had  he  permitted  the  robber  to  escape  ?  Why  had 
he  compromised  with  crime?  He  had  been  cognizant,  all 
through  the  interview,  of  the  feeble  demands  of  conscience ;  but 
somehow  he  had  heard  its  voice  afar  off — too  far  to  take  hold 
of  his  determination.  He  had  been  led,  as  by  a  blind,  un- 
reasoning impulse,  to  get  the  bonds  into  his  hands ;  and  now 
that  he  had  them,  and  the  robber  was  at  large,  and  as  much 
interested  as  himself  in  keeping  the  secret  of  their  possession, 
he  was  surprised  to  learn  that  he  could  not  give  them  up  will- 
ingly. 

Mr.  Benson  had  been  going  through  a  process  of  demorali- 
zation for  several  weeks.  The  reception  of  money  from  widows 
and  orphans  at  a  time  when  he  was  threatened  with  bank- 
ruptcy, the  taking  of  money  from  helpless  and  confiding  people, 
and  using  it  for  the  maintenance  of  his  position  and  the  pay- 
ment of  his  rapidly  accumulating  liabilities,  had  deadened  his 
moral  sense.  He  intended  to  pay  everything.  He  would  have 
been  in  despair  if  he  had  not  supposed  that  in  some  way  every- 
thing would  come  out  right ;  and  this  firm  intention  was  one 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  191 

of  the  motives  which  actvuted  him  in  the  use  of  desperate  and 
immoral  means.  He  had  reconciled  his  conscience  to  this  ac- 
tion, but  the  process  had  weakened  his  conscience. 

He  had  the  bonds  ;  he  had  paid  money  for  them.  He  there- 
fore had  a  certain  right  to  them — a  certain  amount  of  property 
in  them,  and  he  knew  of  no  man  in  the  world  who  had  the 
proof  in  his  hands  that  they  were  his.  It  would  be  his  duty  to 
hold  them  until  that  proof  should  be  presented,  or  he  should 
learn  that  it  existed. 

As  he  paced  his  library,  or  sat  down,  or  dropped  upon  the 
lounge,  for  he  was  as  uneasy  in  body  as  he  was  in  mind,  he 
went  through  all  the  possibilities  of  the  case.  What  if  the 
robber,  or  his  companion,  should  in  some  way  apprise  Nicholas 
of  the  facts  ?  They  could  do  it  by  an  anonymous  letter.  Then 
he  could  give  up  the  package,  and  win  credit  from  the  opera- 
tion. He  could  manage  that.  What  if  Nicholas  should  find 
the  record  of  their  numbers,  and  advertise  it  ?  He  could  man- 
age that  in  the  same  way.  What  if  he  should  use  the  bonds  ? 
But  he  would  not  sell  them.  That  would  be  essential  theft, 
and  he  was  far  from  that,  he  thought,  although  he  had  been 
doing  every  day  that  which  might  turn  out  to  be  theft,  and  that 
which  threatened  to  be  theft.  But  he  could  use  them  in 
the  right  place,  as  collateral  security  for  the  money  he  should 
need.  In  that  way,  he  could,  at  least,  reimburse  himself  for 
the  money  he  had  expended,  and  still  have  the  bonds  where  he 
could  lay  his  hands  on  them  at  a  moment's  notice.  On  the 
whole,  it  seemed  best  to  keep  them  in  his  hands  for  a  while, 
and  he  felt  justified  in  doing  so. 

So  he  carefully  placed  them  in  his  safe.  He  had  no  thought 
of  stealing  them, — not  he, — but  they  were  his  to  hold  for  the 
present,  and  to  use  in  any  way  which  would  not  endanger  their 
loss.  Whenever  the  owner  should  come  with  his  proofs  of 
ownership,  he  should  have  them. 

During  all  the  evening — in  its  excitements  as  well  as  itf 
silences — he  had  been  conscious  that  there  was  company  in 
Miss  Lar kin's  parlor.  The  occurrence  was  not  an  unusual  one, 


i92  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

and  he  gave  it  little  thought.  She  had  many  friends,  and  they 
came  and  went  freely.  They  were  young  people  mainly,  in 
whom  he  had  no  interest ;  but  on  that  evening  he  wondered 
who  they  were,  suspecting,  doubtless,  that  there  might  be  one 
among  them  who  unconsciously  had  acquired  a  new  interest  in 
his  affairs. 

]n  the  silence  of  the  library,  he  heard  voices  in  the  hall, 
and  knew  that  these  visitors  were  taking  their  leave.  He  rose 
from  his  chair  quietly,  walked  to  his  door,  opened  it,  and 
listened.  Then  he  walked  out  and  looked  down  the  stair- 
way. At  the  moment  his  head  appeared,  Nicholas  looked  up, 
and  bade  him  good  evening.  Glezen  and  Miss  Coates  were 
just  going  out. 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Benson,"  said  Nicholas,  from  the  foot  of 
the  staircase,  "  have  you  a  few  minutes  to  spare  to  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  Mr.  Benson  replied.     "  Come  up." 

After  Mr.  Benson,  quite  in  his  accustomed  way,  had  led 
Nicholas  to  his  library,  &nd  given  him  a  chair,  uttering  some 
commonplace  about  the  weather,  he  took  a  distant  seat. 

"  Are  you  quite  well,  Mr.  Benson  ?  "  said  his  caller. 

"  Quite  so,  I  thank  you." 

"  You  seem  paler  to  me  than  usual." 

"  Very  likely.  One  may  say  that  the  times  are  not  tributary 
to  the  highest  health.  I  have  many  responsibilities,  and,  of 
course,  many  anxieties." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  Nicholas,  sincerely. 

Mr.  Benson  gave  a  deprecating  smile  as  he  responded  : 

"  I  can  hardly  regard  myself  as  an  object  of  pity,  yet  I  may 
become  so.  Nobody  knows,  now-a-days,  to  what  twenty-four 
hours  may  bring  him." 

"  I  didn't  intend  any  offense,"  said  Nicholas. 

"You  have  given  none,  sir.  A  business  man  takes  what 
comes,  and  makes  the  best  of  it." 

Mr.  Benson  could  not  guess  what  Nicholas  wanted  of  him, 
but  he  had  a  very  definite  idea  of  what  he  wanted  of  Nicholas. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  you  lately,"  said 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  193 

Mr.  Benson, — "  about  that  robbery,  you  know.     I  hope  the 
loss  of  your  bonds  does  not  embarrass  you  ?  " 

"Not  materially." 

"  No  clew  yet  to  the  robbers,  or  the  bonds,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest." 

"  Are  you  doing  anything  ?  " 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  done.  The  police  have  the  matter 
in  hand,  but  they'll  do  nothing.  They  only  make  a  great  show 
of  effort,  for  the  sake  of  getting  money  out  of  me." 

"  You  have  found  nothing  of  the  record,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it  seems  to  be  hopelessly  lost." 

"  Pity  !  " 

"Yes,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  believe  Mr.  Gold  feels 
worse  about  it  than  I  do." 

"  I  should  think  he  would !  Indeed,  I  should  think  he 
would  ! "  said  Mr.  Benson,  with  indignant  and  disgustful  em- 
phasis. "  Now,  it  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but  I  have  a  sort 
of  presentiment  that  you  are  going  to  find  those  bonds.  I've 
had  a  fellow  in  here  to-night  who  is  just  as  likely  to  have  been 
the  robber  as  anybody.  A  more  villainous  and  truculent  fellow 
I  never  met.  But  the  trouble  is,  that  you  cannot  swear  to  the 
bonds  if  you  find  them.  There's  your  difficulty,  and  it  seems 
insuperable." 

What  special  pleasure  Mr.  Benson  had  in  raising  the  hopes 
of  the  young  man  and  then  dampening  them ;  why  he  should 
hover  around  the  edges  of  his  guilty  secret ;  why  he  should 
rejoice  in  knowledge  which  proved  him  to  be  a  villain,  it  would 
be  hard  to  tell ;  but  he  had  the  strongest  temptation  to  tantalize 
his  victim,  to  glory  in  his  own  possession,  and  to  play  upon  the 
young  man's  ignorance.  He  could  make  it  all  right,  if  occasion 
should  ever  come,  and  refer  to  his  pleasantry  with  a  laugh.  It 
would  be  such  a  nice  thing  to  laugh  over ! 

"  You  wish  to  see  me  on  business  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  and  Nicholas  hesitated. 

"  You  are  not  in  trouble  ?  " 

"  No ;   I  have  been  trying  to  help  a  man  out  of  trouble,' 
9 


194  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

said  Nicholas.  "You  remember  the  man  whom  they  cafl 
Talking  Tim — the  pop-corn  man  ?" 

"Yes,  and  a  troublesome  fellow  he  is." 

"  Well,  he  has  been  in  cruel  straits.  His  family  have  been, 
ill,  and  have  kept  him  at  home,  so  that  he  could  not  earn 
money,  and  he  and  his  have  really  wanted  bread.  He  would 
die,  I  verily  believe,  rather  than  beg.  I  happened  to  know  of 
his  troubles,  and — well — I  bought  a  note  which  he  holds  against 
you.  He  needed  the  money,  and  said  that  you  would  not  pay 
him,  excusing  yourself  on  the  ground  that  his  money  was 
invested  for  a  term  of  years." 

Mr.  Benson  was  angry  ;  his  face  flushed,  his  lips  trembled, 
and  his  voice  was  bitter  as  he  said  : 

"  So  you  are  buying  up  my  notes  in  the  street,  are  you  ?  " 

Both  of  these  men,  having  had  time  to  cool  after  the  altercation 
which  engaged  them  at  their  last  meeting,  had  determined  that 
in  case  they  should  meet  again,  they  would  treat  each  other 
well.  Mr.  Benson  saw  that  he  could  make  nothing  out  of 
Nicholas  by  losing  his  temper,  or  endeavoring  imperiously  to 
assert  his  will,  and  intended  to  let  him  alone.  Nicholas,  too,  had 
been  so  well  received  at  the  house,  and  had  enjoyed  himself 
so  freely  there,  that  he  wished  to  show  Mr.  Benson  that  he  was 
not  angry,  and  that  he  could  ignore  any  differences  that  might 
exist  between  them.  His  first  available  opportunity  came 
when  Mr.  Benson  presented  himself  at  the  top  of  the  stair-case 
that  evening,  and  he  had  followed  him  to  his  library,  bent 
upon  a  pleasant  interview. 

So  when  Mr.  Benson  put  his  question  in  tones  of  angry 
irritation,  both  men  were  surprised  and  sorry.  Mr.  Benson 
learned  that  he  had  lost  his  old  self-control,  and  Nicholas  found 
his  spirit  rising  to  meet  the  insult.  Mr.  Benson  was  sensitive 
to  the  fact  that  he  had  not  done  his  duty  toward  Talking  Tim, 
and  was  angered  to  think  that  the  young  man  had  done  it  for 
him.  It  was  a  rebuke,  and  the  note  in  question  was  in  hands 
that  could  enforce  payment. 

"  Sa  you  are  buying  up  my  notes  in  the  street,  are  you  ?  " 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  195 

The  angry  sneer  which  accompanied  the  question,  more  than 
the  question  itself,  stirred  the  temper  of  the  young  man,  who 
responded  with  a  flushing  face  : 

"  I  am,  sir.     I  have  bought  one  of  them,  at  least." 

"Well  sir,  I  take  it  as  an  insult." 

V  You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  take  it  for  what  you  choose, 
and  as  you  please.  I  don't  propose  to  see  a  worthy  man 
starve,  because  you  refuse  to  do  your  duty." 

"  When  do  you  expect  to  get  your  money  on  this  note?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  expect  to  get  it  to-night.  I  did  not  come  to 
your  library  to  make  any  demand  upon  you  :  I  only  came  to 
tell  you  that  I  hold  the  note.  You  receive  the  news  angrily, 
and  with  such  discourtesy  that  you  compel  me  to  demand  the 
payment  before  I  leave  the  room.  I  do  not  choose  to  take 
the  risk  of  a  second  interview." 

"  Humph !  Yes  !  I  think  I  understand  now  what  your 
business  is  in  the  city.  You  are  beginning  sharply.  How 
heavy  a  shave  did  you  charge  our  indigent  friend,  now  ?  Per- 
haps you  can  teach  me  something." 

"  No,  Mr.  Benson,"  responded  Nicholas,  "  I  can  teach  you 
nothing,  except,  perhaps,  that  unreasonable  anger  will  be  of 
no  use  to  you  in  dealing  with  me.  I  have  had  none  but  good 
motives  in  this  business  toward  the  man  I  have  tried  to  help, 
or  toward  you ;  and  you  have  no  right  to  take  me  up  in  this 
way." 

Mr.  Benson  sat  and  thought.  He  knew  that  he  was  at  fault, 
and  that  half  of  his  irritability  arose  from  that  fact.  But  there 
was  something  else,  and  his  tongue  could  not  withhold  it. 

"  And  you  didn't  think,"  he  said,  "  before  you  paid  Talking 
Tim  his  money,  that  you  had  a  certain  power  over  Mr.  Benson, 
and  that  you  could  get  out  of  him  what  he  could  not  ?  You 
didn't  think  of  that,  did  you  ?  " 

Nicholas  faltered,  reddened,  and  then  said,  defiantly  : 

"  Yes,  I  did  !  " 

"  I  knew  you  did.  I  knew  you  did.  And  you  talk  to  me 
Ibout  none  but  good  motives  !  Faugh  !  Give  me  your  note." 


'196  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Nicholas  handed  it  to  him.  He  looked  at  its  amount,  then 
coolly  tore  it  into  pieces,  which  he  tossed  upon  the  floor. 

"  Now  what  will  you  do,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  will  prosecute  you  as  a  thief,  and  puoiish  you  as  a 
rascal." 

"  You  will  have  a  pleasant  time  of  it,  Mr.  Minturn.  Prose- 
cute if  you  wish  to.  You  are  without  witnesses.  Publish  if 
you  can.  There  is  not  a  newspaper  in  New  York  that  would 
risk  the  publication  of  your  statement.  Who  are  you  ?  " 

The  instincts  of  Nicholas  were  keen  enough  to  see  that  this 
was  a  bit  of  machinery  for  bringing  him  into  subjection.  He 
knew  that  Mr.  Benson  would  not  dare  to  do  otherwise  than 
pay  the  note,  but  he  was  not  in  the  mood  for  being  fooled  with, 
or  practiced  upon.  He  left  his  chair  quickly  and  advanced 
toward  Mr.  Benson,  who  rose  as  if  to  defend  himself,  but  who 
let  his  hand  fall  when  he  perceived  that  Nicholas  had  no  in- 
tention to  attack  him. 

Nicholas,  as  he  neared  the  table,  placed  his  feet  upon  the 
principal  portions  of  the  scattered  note,  then  reached  out 
quickly  and  touched  the  knob  of  the  telegraphic  instrument. 

"  My  God  !  What  have  you  done  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Ben- 
son. 

"  You  told  me  I  had  no  witnesses.  I  thought  I  would  sum- 
mon one  while  the  fragments  of  the  note  lie  on  the  floor  and 
my  feet  cover  them." 

"  But  I  didn't  intend " 

"  I  know  it.  Now  write  the  cheque.  You  know  the  sum — 
with  interest  from  last  July.  I'll  stop  the  policeman  at  the 
door.  Take  your  time  and  I'll  protect  you  from  all  harm." 

Mr.  Benson  did  not  delay.  He  took  down  his  cheque-book, 
cast  his  interest  almost  instantaneously,  and  Nicholas  had  the 
paper  in  his  hand  before  the  policeman  rang.  Then  he  bade 
Mr.  Benson  good-night,  met  and  dismissed  the  officer  in  the 
hall,  and  followed  him  into  the  street. 

Mr.  Benson  had  sacrificed  his  discretion  and  his  dignity  in  a 
childish  attempt  to  scare  Nicholas,  and  get  him  where  he  could 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  197 

handle  him.  The  end  of  it  all,  as  with  deep  humiliation  and 
conscious  loss  of  manhood  and  prestige,  he  comprehended  it, 
was,  that  he  was  more  hopelessly  in  the  hands  of  Nicholas  than 
he  had  been  before. 

"My  God!  my  God!  what  have  I  done?"  he  exclaimed, 
as  the  door  closed  which  shut  Nicholas  out  for  the  night. 
"  Who  am  I  ?  What  am  I  becoming  ?  Where  is  all  this  to 
end  ?  Am  I  so  weak,  so  base,  that  I  can  be  handled  and  con- 
trolled and  spit  upon  by  a  boy  ?  " 

He  was  conscious  of  the  voice  within  him  ;  he  was  conscious 
of  the  eye  above  nim.  The  former  had  been  raised  to  a  fierce, 
spasmodic  utterance  ;  the  latter  looked  upon  him  with  calm 
and  pitying  reproval. 

Then  he  sank  to  his  knees,  and  buried  his  face  in  the  pillows 
of  his  lounge. 

"  O  God !  spare  me  from  becoming  untrue  to  myself  and 
thee !  I  have  not  intended  to  be  untrue.  I  will  restore  the 
bonds  in  good  time.  He  has  no  proof  that  they  are  his.  I 
cannot  give  them  to  him  now,  but  if  they  are  his,  he  shall  have 
them.  I  have  been  tempted.  I  have  been  tried.  Remember 
that  I  am  dust !  " 

He  talked  to  God  and  to  his  conscience  alternately.  He 
made  his  promises  to  one  and  then  to  the  other.  He  struggled 
with  his  remorse.  He  fought  impotently  with  what  seemed  to 
be  a  necessity.  He  could  not  even  wish  that  the  fatal  package 
had  not  come  into  his  hands.  He  could  not  wish  to  surren- 
der it,  although  he  believed  himself  firm  in  the  intent  to  do  so. 
In  this  intent  he  took  his  refuge.  It  was  the  only  one  that  he 
found  open  to  him.  It  was  the  only  one  in  which  his  conscience 
could  find  peace,  or  his  self-respect  an  asylum  of  safety. 

The  fatigues  and  excitements  of  the  day  assured  him  pro- 
found sleep,  and  on  the  following  morning  he  awoke  refreshed 
and  self-possessed ;  but  he  found  that  his  heart  was  bitter  toward 
Nicholas,  who  had  handled  him  in  his  own  house  as  he  had  han- 
dled the  thief.  He  found  that  he  was  pitying  himself,  and  was 
cherishing  a  feeling  of  resentment  against  the  young  man.  The 


I98  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

bonds  could  lie  where  they  were  for  the  present,  at  least !  He 
could  not  afford  to  give  their  owner  the  joy  of  their  restoration. 
Nicholas  deserved  punishment,  and  he  should  have  it  in  some 
way  that  did  not  involve  the  guilt  of  Benjamin  Benson  1 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN   WHICH    THREE    MEN,    DEAD-BEATEN    BY    THE    WORLD,     ARK 
ALSO   DEAD-BEATEN   BY   NICHOLAS. 

IF  Nicholas  had  undertaken  to  account  to  himself,  or  had 
been  called  upon  to  account  to  others,  for  the  reasons  which 
induced  him  to  take  up  his  residence  in  New  York  for  the 
winter,  he  would  have  been  puzzled  for  his  answer.  To  be 
near  Miss  Larkin  was,  undoubtedly,  a  first  consideration.  He 
had  a  hunger  of  heart  that  could  only  be  fed  by  breathing  the 
atmosphere  in  which  she  lived ;  but  this  he  hardly  understood 
himself,  and  this,  certainly,  he  could  not  betray  to  others.  He 
had  had  a  taste,  too,  of  society ;  and  as  Ottercliff  could  give 
him  no  opportunity  for  its  repetition,  his  life  in  the  ancestral 
mansion  had  become  tame  and  tasteless  to  him. 

All  this  was  true,  but  there  was  something  beyond  this.  He 
was  interested  in  himself.  His  interrupted  voyage  upon  the 
Atlantic  had  been  a  voyage  of  discovery,  pursued  but  half 
across  his  own  nature.  Of  independent  action  he  had  had  so 
little,  that  he  was  curious  to  see  how  he  should  come  out  in  a 
hand-to-hand  encounter  with  new  forms  of  life.  He  had  no 
business  except  such  as  came  to  him  in  connection  with  the 
care  of  his  estate,  and  this  was  not  absorbing.  He  found  his 
mind  active,  his  means  abundant,  his  whole  nature  inclined  to 
benevolence,  and  his  curiosity  excited  in  regard  to  that  great 
world  of  the  poor  of  which  he  had  heard  much,  and  known 
literally  nothing  at  all. 

He  was  conscious  of  his  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  men.  He 
was  aware  that  he  had  no  scheme  of  life  and  action,  based  upon 
a  knowledge  of  the  world.  All  that  he  had  done,  thus  far,  had 
been  accomplished  through  the  motive  of  the  hour.  He  had 
seen,  in  moments  of  emergency,  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  he 


200  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

had  done  it.  He  knew  that  other  men  had  a  policy  which  had 
come  to  them  with  a  knowledge  of  motives, — which  had  come 
with  the  experience  of  human  selfishness — which  had  come  with 
a  keen  apprehension  of  ends  and  a  careful  study  of  meanr .  He 
very  plainly  saw  this ;  and  he  was  acute  enough  to  apprehend  the 
fact,  not  only  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  rely  on  his  instincts  and 
his  quick  and  unsophisticated  moral  and  intellectual  perceptions 
for  maintaining  his  power  and  poise,  but  that  he  had  a  certain 
advantage  in  this.  The  game  that  policy  would  be  obliged  to 
take  at  long  range, — with  careful  calculations  of  deflections, 
distances,  and  resistances, — a  quick  and  pure  perception  could 
clap  its  hands  upon.  A  mind  that  knew  too  much — a  mind 
that  was  loaded  with  precedents,  gathered  in  the  path  of  con- 
ventionality and  custom — would  be  slow  to  see  a  new  way, 
while  one  to  which  all  things  were  new  would  be  hindered  by 
nothing. 

All  that  education  and  association  could  do  to  give  Nicholas 
a  woman's  mind  and  a  woman's  purity,  had  been  done ;  but 
behind  this  mind,  and  pervaded  with  this  purity,  there  sat  a 
man's  executive  power.  Of  this,  he  had  become  conscious  in 
his  occasional  contact  with  men  whose  life  was  a  scheme  and  a 
policy.  What  wonder,  then,  that  he  was  curious  about  him- 
self? What  wonder  that  the  discovery  of  himself  should  have 
been  esteemed  by  him  an  enterprise  quite  worthy  of  his  under 
taking  ? 

He  had  been  installed  in  his  apartments  but  a  few  days, 
when  his  presence  in  New  York  seemed  to  have  been  dis- 
covered in  quarters  most  unlikely  to  acquire  the  knowledge. 
College  friends  who  were  having  a  hard  time  of  it  in  the  city 
found  it  convenient  to  borrow  small  sums  of  money  of  him. 
He  was  invited  to  dinners  and  receptions ;  and  he  learned  that 
the  flavor  of  his  heroism  still  hung  about  him,  and  that  he  was 
still  an  object  of  curious  interest.  Then,  various  claims  to  his 
beneficence  were  presented  by  the  regular  benevolent  societies. 
To  all  these  he  turned  a  willing  ear,  and  lent  a  generous  hand, 
It  was  a  matter  of  wonder  to  him,  for  a  good  many  days,  how 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  *oi 

so  many  people,  of  such  different  grades,  should  know  just 
where  to  look  for  him. 

One  morning,  as  he  had  completed  some  business  of  his 
own  that  had  cost  him  an  hour  at  his  desk,  Pont  appeared 
with  the  card  of  "  Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish."  Who  Mr.  Jonas 
Cavendish  was,  he  had  not  the  remotest  apprehension ;  but  he 
told  Pont  to  show  the  gentleman  up. 

Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish  came  in,  holding  before  him,  as  if  he 
expected  Nicholas  to  take  it,  an  old  and  carefully  brushed 
hat.  The  weather  was  cold,  but  he  wore  no  overcoat. 
There  was  a  cheerful — almost  a  gleeful — look  on  the  man's 
face,  a  dandyish  air  about  his  buttoned-up  figure,  and  a  general 
expression  of  buoyancy  in  his  manner,  that  gave  Nicholas  the 
impression  that  he  had  suddenly  fallen  heir  to  a  vast  fortune, 
and  had  come  to  tell  a  stranger  the  news  before  visiting  his 
tailor. 

Nicholas  rose  to  receive  him,  and  Mr.  Cavendish  extended 
his  blue  hand,  with  which  he  shook  that  of  the  young  man  very 
long  and  very  heartily. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  know  you,"  said  Nicholas  very  doubt- 
fully. "  Be  seated,  sir." 

Mr.  Cavendish  sat  down,  and  gave  Nicholas  a  long  and  in- 
terested examination. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  seem  possible  !  It — does — not — seem — 
possible  !  "  said  Mr.  Cavendish.  "  To  think  that  the  little  lad 
that  I  used  to  see  at  Ottercliff  has  come  to  this  !  Ah !  time 
flies  ! " 

Nicholas  was  so  much  embarrassed  that  he  took  up  the 
man's  car  1,  and  looked  at  it  again,  to  see  if  it  would  not 
to-uch  the  spring  in  his  memory  that  seemed  so  slow  in  its 
responses. 

"  1  see  that  you  are  puzzled,"  said  the  man,  "  and  I  ought 
to  bay,  in  justice  to — to  all  concerned — that,  in  one  sense  you 
ought  to  know  me,  and,  in  another  sense,  that  you  ought  not 
to  know  me.  Now  let  me  try  to  assist  you.  Flat-Head  I 
Flat -Head?  Docs  it  help  you  any  ?  Don't  you  catch  a 
9* 


202  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

glimpse  of  a  pale  and  enthusiastic  young  man,  bending  over 
you,  and  playing  with  your  curls  ?     Flat-Head,  now  !  " 

"No,  I  must  beg  your  pardon.     I  cannot  recall  you." 

"Don't  feel  badly  about  it,  I  beg  of  you.  I'll  tell  you  who 
I  am  in  a  moment ;  but  psychology  has  always  been  a  favorite 
study  with  me,  and  I  want  to  make  a  little  experiment.  I  have 
a  theory  that  every  event  in  a  man's  life  makes  an  impression 
upon  the  memory,  and  can  be  recalled,  if  we  touch  the  chords, 
— if  we  touch  the  right  chord,  you  know.  Now,  don't  you  re- 
member hearing  old  Tom  say  to  your  mother:  'Here's  that 
plug  of  Cavendish  turned  up  again  ?  '  Don't  that  start  it  ?  " 

"  So  you  knew  old  Tom  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"  Yes,  and  a  good  old  fellow  he  was.  Queer,  but  good  at 
heart,  you  know." 

"  Won't  you  sit  near  the  fire  ?  "  Nicholas  inquired,  seeing 
that  Mr.  Cavendish  was  in  a  shiver. 

"No,  sir — no.  You  wonder  why  I  wear  no  overcoat.  I 
would  not  consent  to  such  a  degree  of  effeminacy.  My  life  has 
inured  me  to  hardship.  When  I  am  within  the  confines  of 
civilization,  I  endeavor,  as  far  as  possible,  to  preserve  the  habits 
I  am  compelled  to  follow  among  the  wild  tribe  that  engages  my 
poor  services.  I  should  be  ashamed  to  wear  an  overcoat,  sir. 
Ah !  your  dear,  departed  mother  has  talked  to  me  about  it, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  again  and  again." 

Here  Mr.  Cavendish  withdrew  a  soiled  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  blew  his  nose. 

"  The  cold,  as  an  exciting  agency,  will  have  its  effect  upon 
the  mucous  membrane,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  with  a  trembling 
voice  and  an  attempt  to  hide  from  Nicholas  the  cause  of  his 
emotion. 

"  I  shall  be  obliged  to  trouble  you  to  tell  me  who  you  are,' 
said  Nicholas. 

"  I  suppose  a  young  man  like  you  never  reads  the  reports  of 
missionary  operations,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish ;  "  but  I  have 
given  my  life  to  the  Flat-Head  Indians.  I  have  not  been  able 
to  do  much,  but  I  have  modified  them, — modified  them,  sir. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  203 

If  I  may  be  permitted  the  rare  indulgence  of  a  jest,  I  should 
say  that  their  heads  are  not  so  level  as  they  were,  speaking 
strictly  with  reference  to  their  physical  conformation.  The 
burdens  which  they  bear  upon  them  are  lighter.  There  has 
been,  through  my  humble  agency — I  hope  I  say  it  without 
vanity — a  general  amelioration.  The  organ  of  benevolence 
has  been  lifted.  Veneration  has  received  a  chance  for  devel- 
opment." 

"  And  did  my  mother  formerly  help  you  ? "  inquired  Nich- 
olas. 

"  That  woman  forced  things  upon  me,  sir.  I  couldn't  get 
out  of  the  house  empty-handed.  I  shall  never,  never  forget 
her." 

"  Are  you  now  at  the  East  collecting  funds  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I'll  tell  you  just  how  it  is.  I  am  not  here  to  collect 
funds.  I  am  here,  mainly,  to  report  facts.  I  have  all  I  can  do 
to  hinder  my  mission  from  assuming  a  mercenary  aspect,  and 
to  prevent  a  mercenary  aspect  from  being  thrown  over  my  past 
life.  It  vexes  me  beyond  measure." 

Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish  was  now  approaching  the  grand  climax 
of  the  little  drama  he  had  brought  upon  the  stage,  and  rose  to 
his  feet  for  more  convenient  and  effective  acting. 

"  Only  last  night,"  said  he,  "  I  was  with  friends.  I  was  just 
as  unsuspicious  as  an  unborn  babe  of  what  was  going  on.  We 
talked  about  the  past  and  its  sacrifices.  They  ought  to  have 
known  better.  They  had  been  acquainted  with  me  and  my 
work  for  a  life-time,  and  it  was  not  my  fault  that  they  presumed 
to  cast  a  veil  of  mercenariness  over  my  career.  They  knew — 
they  must  have  known — that  I  had  worked  solely  for  the  good 
of  the  cause.  And  yet,  those  friends,  meaning  well,  but  obtuse 
— utterly  obtuse  to  the  state  of  my  feelings — proposed  a  testi- 
monial. Sir,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  was  angry.  I  raved. 
I  walked  the  room  in  a  rage.  '  Good  God  ! '  said  I,  '  has  it 
come  to  this :  that  a  miserable  pecuniary  rewar  d  is  to  spread 
its  poisonous  shadow  over  the  sacrifices  of  a  life  ! '  I  was  indig- 
nant, yet  I  knew  that  they  meant  well.  I  knew  that  their  hearts 


204  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

were  right  They  couldn't  see  that  they  were  wounding  me  at 
the  most  sensitive  point — that  they  insulted  while  they  attempt- 
ed to  compliment  me." 

Mr.  Cavendish  here  administered  a  complimentary  attention 
to  his  "  mucous  membrane,"  and  proceeded : 
,  "Then  I  relented,  and  as  my  passion  died,  and  my  mind 
came  into  a  frame  more  favorable  to  the  conception  of  expe- 
dients, a  thought  struck  me.  '  I  have  it ! '  said  I.  '  Go  away 
from  me  with  your  testimonials  !  Go  away,  go  away  !  I  shut 
my  ears  to  you.  Not  a  word !  not  a  word  about  it !  but  make 
it  an  endowment,'  said  I,  'and  I'm  with  you !'  " 

Here  Mr.  Cavendish  had  arrived  at  a  high  pitch  of  eloquence. 
His  face  glowed,  his  eyes  flashed,  and  he  stood  before  Nicholas, 
quivering  all  through  and  all  over  with  earnestness  and  ex- 
citement. 

"It  ran  through  them  like  wild-fire,"  he  went  on.  "They 
chose  a  president  and  secretary.  They  prepared  the  papers. 
They  accomplished  their  object,  and  they  spared  me.  We 
parted  amicably,  and  here  is  the  paper.  If  you  esteem  it  a 
privilege  to  aid  in  this  endowment,  you  shall  have  it,  as  the  son 
of  a  woman  whom  I  honored,  and  who  honored  my  mission. 
Act  with  perfect  freedom.  Don't  put  down  a  dollar  more  than 
you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  put  down.  Think  of  it  only  as  an 
endowment.  Twenty-five  dollars  is  a  fair  sum  for  any  man. 
I  don't  want  it  in  large  sums.  It  ought  to  be  a  general  thing, 
in  which  the  whole  people  can  unite.  Then  all  will  be  inter- 
ested, and  all  will  feel  that  they  have  had  a  chance.  Just  put 
your  name  there,  at  the  head  of  the  third  column.  I  confess 
that  I  have  a  little  feeling  on  the  matter  of  leading  names,  and 
1  trust  you  will  pardon  the  vanity." 

Nicholas  drew  up  to  the  table,  with  a  feeling  of  utter  help- 
lessness. The  nice  distinction  which  Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish 
recognized  between  a  testimonial  and  an  endowment  was  not 
apparent  to  him,  but  he  saw  that  that  individual  apprehended  it 
in  a  very  definite  and  positive  form.  He  was  at  a  loss,  also,  to 
comprehend  the  propriety  and  the  modesty  of  the  missionary's 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  205 

agency  in  working  up  the  endowment.  The  whole  perform- 
ance seemed  to  be  an  ingenious  piece  of  acting,  yet  he  was 
under  an  influence  which  compelled  him  to  sign  the  paper, 
and  to  write  the  sum  which  Mr.  Cavendish  had  mentioned,  at 
the  end  of  his  name.  He  could  not  bring  his  mind  to  regard 
it  as  a  privilege,  but  he  seemed  shorn  of  the  power  to  repel 
the  offer. 

"  I  may  as  well  pay  this  now,"  said  Nicholas,  rising  to  his 
feet  and  producing  the  money. 

"  You  remind  me  of  your  mother,  in  many  things, — in  many 
things,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  smiling  his  approval  of  the  propo- 
sition, and  pocketing  the  notes. 

Then  Mr.  Cavendish  gathered  up  his  papers,  thanked  Nicho- 
las on  behalf  of  the  committee  and  the  cause,  shook  his  hand 
and  retired,  with  the  same  buoyant  and  business-like  air  which 
he  wore  upon  his  entrance. 

Nicholas  found  himself  unhappy  and  discontented  when  Mr. 
Cavendish  closed  the  door  behind  him.  He  had  done  that 
which  he  knew  Glezen  would  laugh  at,  but  he  felt,  somehow, 
that  he  could  not  have  helped  himself.  The  man's  will  and 
expectation  were  so  strong,  that  he  was  powerless  to  disappoint 
him.  He  determined  only  that  he  would  be  more  careful  in 
the  future. 

He  had  thought  the  matter  over  in  a  vague  uneasiness  for 
half  an  hour,  when  Pont  appeared  again,  with  the  announce- 
ment that  a  sick  man  was  at  the  door,  and  insisted  on  seeing 
Mr.  Minturn. 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  him/'  said  Nicholas,  shrinking  from 
another  encounter. 

"  Dai's  jes  what  I  tole  him,"  said  Pont ;  "  but  he  says  he 
mils'  see  you,  mas'r." 

"  Well,  I'm  in  for  it  to-day,  Pont.  I'll  see  it  through.  Show 
him  up." 

Pont  was  gone  a  long  time,  but  at  last  Nicholas  overheard 
conversation,  a  great  shuffling  of  feet  upon  the  stairs,  and  the 
very  gradual  approach  of  his  visitor. 


206  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  a  feeble- looking,  shabby  fellow 
appeared,  creeping  slowly  upon  feet  that  were  apparently 
swollen  to  twice  their  natural  size.  They  were  incased  in  shoes, 
slit  over  the  tops,  to  accommodate  the  enlarged  members,  with 
their  manifold  wrappings.  With  many  sighs  and  groans,  he 
sank  into  a  chair,  and  Nicholas  observed  him  silently  while  he 
regained  his  breath.  There  was  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of 
Nicholas  that  the  man  was  not  only  poor,  but  miserable. 

"  I  am  troubling  you,"  said  the  panting  visitor  at  length,  in 
a  feeble,  regretful  voice,  "because  I  am  obliged  to  trouble 
somebody.  I  have  had  no  experience  in  straits  like  these,  and 
I  have  no  arts  by  which  to  push  my  claims  upon  your  charity. 
I  am  simply  poor  and  helpless." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  so  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  Only  a  day  and  a  night,  in  which  I  have  neither  slept  nor 
tasted  food." 

"Tell  me  your  story,"  said  Nicholas. 

The  invalid  had  a  twinge  of  terrible  pain  at  this  moment,  and 
lifted  and  nursed  one  of  his  aching  feet. 

"  I  walked  the  streets  all  last  night,  until  just  before  morning, 
and  I  don't  feel  much  like  talk,"  said  the  man.  "  However, 
I'll  make  it  short.  I  came  here  nine  months  ago,  looking  for 
«vork.  Before  I  had  been  here  a  week,  I  was  taken  down  with 
acute  rheumatism.  I  ought  to  say  that  I  am  a  son  of  Dr.  Yank- 
ton  of  Boston,  and  that  my  home  has  been  in  Virginia  for  the 
last  twenty  years,  though  my  life  has  been  an  official  one — at 
Washington — in  the  departments.  As  I  said,  I  came  here  for 
work,  and  then  I  was  taken  down.  I  had  to  go  to  Bellevue, 
and  there  I  stayed  until  they  got  all  my  money,  and  then  they 
sent  me  to  the  Island."  (Another  twinge.)  "They  dismissed 
me  yesterday,  without  a  word  of  warning.  I  had  no  chance  to 
write  to  my  friends  for  money,  and  I  have  no  way  to  get  home." 

"  And  you  say  that  you  have  neither  eaten  nor  slept  since 
your  discharge  ?  " 

"  Not  a  morsel  and  not  a  wink,"  said  Mr.  Yankton,  compre- 
hensively. "  I  couldn't  beg.  J  can't  now.  Gracious  Heaven  I 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  207 

what  a  night !  It  I  were  to  live  a  thousand  years,  I  cou'/dn't 
forget  it.  I  went  into  the  Bowery  Hotel  at  midnight,  and  sat 
down.  I  sat  there  about  ten  minutes,  when  the  clerk  came  to 
me  and  said  that  he  wasn't  allowed  to  have  tramps  sitting  'round 
in  the  house,  nights,  and  told  me  I  must  move  on.  He  wasn't 
rough,  but  he  was  obliged  to  obey  orders.  Then  I  walked  until 
three,  and  found  myself  at  the  Metropolitan.  I  went  in  and 
told  the  clerk  I  wanted  to  sit  down  awhile,  and  he  bade  me  do 
so  and  make  myself  comfortable  till  the  people  began  to  stir. 
But  I  couldn't  sleep,  and  here  I  am." 

All  this  was  very  plausible,  and  Nicholas  felt  the  case  to  be 
genuine ;  but  he  was  bound  to  take  the  proper  precautions 
against  imposition. 

"  You  have  some  credentials,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  in 
a  tone  of  inquiry. 

"  Plenty  of  'em." 

Then  Mr.  Yankton  withdrew  from  his  pocket,  and  carefully 
unfolded  a  package  of  papers,  and  handed  them  to  Nicholas. 
They  showed  very  plainly,  on  examination,  that  Mr.  Yankton, 
or  somebody  who  bore  his  name,  had  been  in  the  depart- 
ments at  Washington,  and  that  he  had  left  a  good  record. 

"I  would  like  to  borrow,"  said  Mr.  Yankton,  "the  sum  of 
six  dollars.  When  I  get  to  Baltimore,  I  shall  be  all  right,  and 
I  shall  at  once  sit  down  and  return  you  the  money." 

Nicholas  handed  the  sum  to  him,  partly  from  benevolence, 
partly  to  get  an  unpleasant  sight  and  an  unwholesome  smell  out 
of  his  room  ;  and  he  was  surprised,  when  Pont  had  helped  the 
crippled  fellow  down-stairs  and  into  the  street,  that  a  vague 
sense  of  dissatisfaction  was  left,  in  this  case  as  in  the  other. 
He  asked  himself  a  good  many  questions  in  regard  to  the  mat- 
ter that  he  could  not  satisfactorily  answer.  He  was,  at  least, 
in  no  mood  for  meeting  any  new  applicant  for  money.  So  he 
put  on  his  overcoat,  and  prepared  himself  for  the  street.  When 
he  emerged  upon  the  sidewalk,  he  suddenly  conceived  the  pur- 
pose to  walk  to  Bellevue  Hospital,  and  inquire  into  Mr.  Yank- 
ton's  history  in  that  institution.  Arriving  there,  he  was  informed, 


2o8  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

after  a  careful  examination  of  the  books,  that  no  man  bearing 
the  name  of  Yankton  had  been  a  patient  in  the  institution 
within  the  space  of  the  previous  ten  years. 

Nicholas  left  the  hospital  sick  at  heart.  It  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible, to  his  simple  nature,  that  a  man  could  lie  so  boldly  and 
simulate  disease  so  cleverly,  and  do  it  all  for  a  paltry  sum  of 
money.  He  thought  of  what  Glezen  had  said  at  Mrs.  Coates's 
dinner-table,  and  concluded  that  his  friend  should  not  know 
how  thoroughly  he  had  been  deceived. 

He  took  a  vigorous  walk  about  the  streets,  until  it  was  time 
for  him  to  return  to  his  lunch.  Pont  met  him  at  the  door,  and 
informed  him  that  during  his  absence  a  gentleman  had  called, 
who  would  be  in  again  at  three  o'clock.  Nicholas  took  the 
man's  card  without  looking  at  it  until  he  reached  his  room. 
Then  he  tossed  it  upon  the  table,  removed  his  overcoat  and 
gloves,  and,  as  he  drew  up  to  the  fire,  picked  up  the  card  and 
read  the  name  of  "  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn,  of  Missouri." 

The  name  startled  him.  He  knew  that  his  family  was  small, 
and  he  had  never  heard  of  the  Missouri  branch.  But  this  was 
not  the  most  remarkable  part  of  the  matter.  His  own  mother 
was  a  Lansing,  a  name  as  honorable  as  his  own,  and  represent- 
ing a  much  larger  family.  Here  was  a  man  who,  apparently, 
held  a  blood  connection  with  him  on  both  sides  of  the  house. 
The  love  of  kindred  was  strong  within  the  young  man,  and  he 
found  his  heart  turning  with  warm  interest  and  good-will  toward 
the  expected  visitor. 

Indeed,  he  was  impatient  for  him  to  appear,  for  he  antici- 
pated the  reception,  through  him,  of  an  accession  of  knowledge 
concerning  his  ancestry  and  his  living  connections. 

He  ate  his  lunch  and  passed  his  time  in  desultory  reading, 
until,  at  last,  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn  was  announced.  He  rose 
to  meet  his  unknown  relative  with  characteristic  heartiness  and 
frankness,  and  invited  him  to  a  seat  at  the  fire. 

Mr.  Lansing  Minturn,  it  must  be  confessed,  did  not  bear  a 
strong  resemblance  to  Nicholas.  He  was  plainly  but  comforta- 
bly dressed,  bore  upon  his  face  the  marks  of  exposure,  and  aj> 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  209 

patently  belonged  to  what  may  be  called  the  middle  class  of 
American  citizens.  He  was  modest  in  demeanor,  respectful 
without  being  obsequious,  and  self-possessed  without  obtrusive- 
ness. 

"I  have  called,"  said  he,  "not  to  make  any  claim  of  rela- 
tionship— for  I  should  never  have  presumed  to  do  that — but  in 
the  pursuit  of  an  errand  which  has  brought  me  to  the  city. 
Four  months  ago  a  brother  of  mine  left  home  for  the  East,  and 
not  a  word  have  we  heard  from  him  since.  I  have  come  to 
New  York  to  find  him.  So  far,  I  have  been  unsuccessful. 
He  had  but  little  money  when  he  left,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that,  in  his  straits,  he  might  have  come  to  one  of  his  own  name 
for  help.  That's  all.  Has  he  done  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  !  I  haven't  seen  him,"  said  Nicholas. 

"Then  I'll  not  trouble  you  longer,"  said  Mr.  Lansing  Min- 
turn,  with  a  sigh,  and  he  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

"  Don't  go  ! "  exclaimed  Nicholas.  "  I  want  to  talk  with 
you  about  your  family." 

"I  am  delighted,  of  course,  to  rest  here  awhile,"  said  the 
visitor  ;  "  but  I  had  no  intention  to  take  up  your  time." 

Then  the  two  young  men,  in  whom  the  sentiment  of  consan- 
guinity rose  into  dominant  eminence,  sat  and  talked  through  a 
most  interesting  hour.  It  was  a  matter  of  profound  grief  to 
Mr.  Lansing  Minturn  and  his  family  that  none  of  them  had 
been  able  to  attend  the  grand  gathering  of  the  Lansing  family, 
which  had  taken  place  a  few  years  before.  Some  of  their 
neighbors  had  attended  the  meeting,  and  brought  back  glowing 
reports  of  the  festivities  and  the  speeches.  He,  himself,  had 
read  the  record  with  great  interest.  He  was  thoroughly  posted 
in  his  pedigree,  on  both  sides  of  the  family,  and  was  proud  of 
it,  in  the  humble  way  in  which  a  man  in  humble  circumstances 
may  cherish  a  pride  of  ancestry ;  but  he  had  never  gone  among 
the  rich  members  of  the  family.  Poor  relations  were  not  usu- 
ally welcome.  His  grandfather  was  still  living  in  Boston, — a 
man  once  rich,  but  now  in  greatly  reduced  circumstances,  and 
very  old,  Indeed,  it  was  the  failure  of  his  grandfather  in  busi- 


a  io  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

ness  which  had  sent  his  children  into  the  West  when  it  was  little 
more  than  a  wilderness. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn — rising  and  taking 
his  hat — "how  far  is  it  to  Boston?" 

"  Seven  or  eight  hours'  ride,  I  suppose,"  Nicholas  replied. 

"  Ride  !  yes  ! "  and  the  remote  cousin  extended  his  hand  in 
farewell,  and  started  for  the  door. 

"  Look  here  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  rushing 
toward  him. 

"  Nothing — nothing — I  can  do  it." 

"  Of  course  you  can  do  it." 

"I'm  a  civil  engineer,"  said  Mr.  Minturn  from  Missouri. 
"  Walking  is  my  business,  and  I  can  do  it." 

His  hand  was  upon  the  knob,  and  one  of  the  hands  of  Nicho- 
las was  in  his  pocket,  while  the  other  grasped  the  retreating 
figure  of  his  newly  found  relative.  There  was  a  harmless  little 
tussle,  an  exclamation,  "  You  are  too  kind,"  and  both  became 
conscious,  at  subsequent  leisure,  that  a  ten-dollar  bill  had  passed 
from  Minturn  to  Minturn.  It  was  a  comfort  to  each,  for  sev- 
eral hours,  that  the  money  had  not  gone  out  of  the  family,  yet 
Nicholas  was  not  entirely  sure  that  he  had  not  been  imposed 
upon.  The  last  look  that  he  had  enjoyed  of  his  relative's  eyes 
and  mouth — of  the  general  expression  of  triumph  that  illumi- 
nated his  features — made  him  uneasy.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  he  had  been  imposed  upon  again  ?  Could  it  be  possible 
that  he  had  been  led  into  a  trap,  and  had  voluntarily  made  an 
ass  of  himself?  It  was  hard  to  believe,  and  therefore  he  would 
not  believe  it, 

Nicholas  sat  down  and  thought  it  all  over.  He  knew  that 
Glezen  would  not  be  in  that  night,  for  he  had  informed  him  of 
an  engagement.  Coming  to  a  conclusion,  he  rang  his  bell  for 
Pont.  When  his  servant  appeared,  he  told  him  to  go  to  the 
house  of  Talking  Tim,  the  pop-corn  man,  whose  address  he  had 
learned,  with  the  message  that  he  (Nicholas)  wanted  to  see  him 
at  his  rooms  that  evening. 

It  was  still  two  hours  to  dinner,  and  he  went  into  the  street, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  an 

called  on  one  or  two  friends,  and  got  rid  of  his  lingering  time 
as  well  as  he  could.  His  dinner  disposed  of,  he  was  in  his 
room  at  seven,  and  soon  afterward  Talking  Tim  appeared,  with 
his  basket  on  his  arm. 

Nicholas  gave  him  a  warm,  comfortable  seat  at  his  fire,  and 
then  told  him,  with  entire  faithfulness,  the  story  of  his  day's  ex- 
periences. 

Tim  listened  with  great  interest  and  respectfulness  to  the 
narrative,  but  when  it  was  concluded,  he  gave  himself  up  to  an 
uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

"  You  really  must  excuse  me,"  said  the  pop-corn  man,  "  but 
I  know  every  one  of  these  fellows.  They  are  the  brightest 
dead-beats  there  are  in  the  city." 

"  You  are  sure  you  are  not  mistaken  ?  "  said  Nicholas  lugu- 
briously. 

"  Say  ! "  said  Talking  Tim,  using  a  favorite  exclamation  for 
attracting  or  fastening  an  interlocutor's  attention,  "  would  you 
like  to  take  a  little  walk  this  evening  ?  I  think  I  can  show  you 
something  you'll  be  pleased  to  see." 

"  Yes,  I'll  go  with  you  anywhere." 

"Then  put  on  your  roughest  clothes,  and  your  storm  hat, 
and  leave  your  gloves  behind.  Make  as  little  difference  be- 
tween yourself  and  me  as  you  can,  and  we'll  indulge  in  a  short 
call." 

Nicholas  arrayed  himself  according  to  Tim's  directions,  who 
sat  by  and  criticised  the  outfit. 

"  You  are  a  little  more  respectable  than  you  ought  to  be," 
said  Tim,  "  but  if  you'll  button  your  coat  up  to  your  chin, 
so  as  to  leave  it  doubtful  whether  you  have  a  shirt  on,  you'll 
do." 

They  started  out  in  great  glee,  and  by  Tim's  direction  took 
a  Broadway  car,  and  rode  to  the  lower  terminus  of  the  road. 
Then  they  crossed  Broadway,  and  soon  began  to  thread  the 
winding  streets  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  city.  Nicholas  was 
quickly  beyond  familiar  ground,  but  he  asked  no  questions,  and 
took  little  note  of  his  bearings,  trusting  himself  to  his  guide. 


2i2  NICHOLAS  MINTURAi. 

Many  a  joke  was  tossed  at  Talking  Tim  on  the  way,  of  which 
he  took  little  notice.  They  passed  bar-rooms  and  saloons  ablaze 
with  light  and  crowded  with  drunken,  swearing  men.  They 
jostled  against  staggering  ruffians  and  wild-eyed,  wanton  wo- 
men. They  saw  penniless  loafers  looking  longingly  into  bakers' 
windows.  They  saw  feeble  children  lugging  homeward  buckets 
of  beer.  They  saw  women  trying  to  lead  drunken  husbands 
through  the  cold  streets  to  miserable  beds  in  garrets  and  cellars, 
and  other  sights,  sickening  enough  to  make  them  ashamed  of 
the  race  to  which  they  belonged,  and  to  stir  in  them  a  thousand 
benevolent  and  helpful  impulses. 

"  Here  we  are  !  "  said  Tim,  after  a  long  period  of  silent 
walking. 

Nicholas  looked  up,  and  saw  at  the  foot  of  a  shallow  alley 
two  windows  of  stained  glass.  Clusters  of  grapes  were 
blazoned  on  the  panes,  and  men  were  coming  and  going, 
though  the  opening  door  revealed  nothing  of  the  interior,  which 
was  hidden  behind  a  screen.  By  the  light  of  a  street-lamp, 
which  headed  and  illuminated  the  alley,  he  could  read  the  gilt 
letters  of  the  sign,  "  The  Crown  and  Crust,"  over  which  stood, 
carved  in  outline  and  gilded  like  the  letters,  a  goat  rampant. 

"Now,"  said  Tim,  "we'll  go  in,  and  we'll  go  straight  to  a 
stall,  and  not  stop  to  talk  with  anybody.  I  know  the  stall  I 
want,  and,  if  it's  eiupty,  we  shall  be  all  right.  Don't  follow 
me,  but  keep  by  my  side,  and  don't  act  as  if  you'd  never  been 
here  before." 

When  they  opened  the  door,  they  were  met  by  a  stifling  at- 
mosphere of  tobacco -smoke  and  beer,  which  at  first  sickened 
Nicholas  and  half  determined  him  to  beat  a  retreat,  but  this 
was  overcome.  Nicholas  saw  a  large  room  and  a  large  bar, 
behind  which  stood  three  or  four  men  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  and 
two  girls,  dressed  in  various  cheap  finery.  Customers  filled 
the  room — chaffing,  swearing,  laughing  riotously,  staggering 
about,  or  sitting  half  asleep  on  lounges  that  surrounded  a  red- 
hot  stove.  Opening  out  of  the  room  on  three  sides  were  rows 
of  stalls,  each  with  its  narrow  table  running  backward  through 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  213 

the  middle,  and  with  unceiled  walls  not  more  than  a  foot  higher 
than  a  standing  man's  head.  The  stalls  were  closed  in  front 
by  faded  red  curtains  which  the  customers  parted  on  entering, 
and  dropped  behind  them. 

Tim  gave  a  bow  of  recognition  here  and  there,  as  he  passed 
through  the  crowd,  many  of  whom  looked  strangely  and  ques- 
tioningly  at  Nicholas.  Such  crowds  always  have  a  wholesome 
fear  of  detectives,  and  suspicions  attached  to  him  at  once — pre- 
cisely the  suspicions  which  would  secure  to  him  respectful  treat- 
ment, for  there  were  probably  not  five  men  in  the  room  who 
had  not  good  reason  to  fear  the  police. 

The  two  men  went  across  the  room  to  a  stall,  and  disap- 
peared within  it.  Tim  left  his  basket  inside,  and,  telling  Nich- 
olas to  remain  while  he  should  order  something,  as  a  matter  of 
form,  he  went  out.  As  he  stood  at  the  bar,  one  of  the  crowd 
approached  him,  and  inquired  the  name  and  business  of  his 
companion. 

"  Oh,  he's  an  old  one,"  said  Tim,  "  and  can't  be  fooled 
with.  He's  no  detective,  if  that's  what  you're  after,  and  he's 
all  right." 

When  Tim  returned,  he  found  Nicholas  in  great  excitement. 
The  latter  put  his  finger  to  his  lip,  and  made  a  motion  of  his 
head,  which  indicated  that  interesting  conversation  was  in  prog- 
ress in  the  adjoining  stall.  Tim  sat  down  in  silence,  and  both 
listened.  Soon  a  voice  said  : 

"  Boys,  that  was  the  cleanest  raid  that's  been  executed  inside 
of  a  year.  The  family  affection  that  welled  up  in  that  young 
kid's  bosom  when  he  realized  that  the  mingled  blood  of  all  the 
Minturns  and  Lansings  was  circulating  in  my  veins,  it  was 
touching  to  see.  I  could  have  taken  him  to  my  heart.  I  tell 
you  it  was  the  neatest  job  I  ever  did." 

"  I  came  pretty  near  making  a  slump  of  it,"  said  another  voice. 
u  I  was  telling  him  about  my  dear  old  Flat-Heads,  you  know, 
and  how  much  good  I  had  done  them.  Well,  when  I  told  him 
that  I  had  ameliorated  them,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  an  in- 
fernal suggestion  came  to  me  to  say  that  I  had  planted  in  their 


a  14  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

brains  the  leaven  of  civilization,  and  that  the  mass  was  rising : 
and  the  idea  of  an  Indian's  head  as  a  loaf  of  bread  was  a  little 
too  many  for  me.  I  didn't  dare  to  speak  it  out  for  fear  I  should 
laugh,  and  put  the  fellow  on  his  guard." 

Following  this  there  was  a  boisterous  roar  of  merriment, 
which  continued  until  another  voice  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  my  rheumatiz  !  my  rheumatiz  !  " 

Then  there  was  another  laugh,  and  Nicholas  and  Tim  ex- 
changed smiling  glances. 

"  Wait  here,"  said  Nicholas. 

Then,  rebuttoning  his  coat,  and  putting  on  his  hat,  he  left 
the  stall,  and  threading  his  way  through  the  crowd,  that  grew 
silent  and  made  way  for  him  as  he  passed,  he  quickly  sped 
through  the  alley  and  emerged  upon  the  street.  He  remem- 
bered that  a  few  rods  from  the  alley  he  had  passed  a  police- 
station.  Making  sure  of  his  point  of  compass,  he  walked 
slowly  back  upon  the  track  he  had  traversed  on  approaching 
"  The  Crown  and  Crust,"  and  soon  found  the  house  he  sought, 
and  entered.  Addressing  the  officer  in  charge,  he  told  him  his 
story  and  explained  to  him  his  wishes.  The  officer  was  oblig- 
ing, and  immediately  detailed  three  policemen,  who  accom- 
panied him  back  to  the  saloon. 

There  was  a  general  silence  and  scattering  as  he  entered 
with  his  escort,  and  made  directly  for  the  stall  in  which  Talking 
Tim  was  waiting  impatiently,  and  with  many  fears,  for  his  re- 
turn. As  he  parted  the  curtains,  Tim  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
policemen  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  Nicholas  raised  his  finger, 
and  then  quietly  parted  the  curtains  which  hid  the  three  rogues 
who  had  preyed  upon  him  during  the  day,  and  looked  in  upon 
them  without  saying  a  word. 

To  the  face  of  one,  the  Minturn  and  Lansing  blood  mounted 
with  painful  pulsations.  The  rheumatic  patient,  with  great 
liveliness  of  limb  and  utter  disregard  of  his  tender  feet,  endeav- 
ored to  clamber  over  the  partition,  but  was  knocked  back  by 
the  pop-corn  man.  The  missionary  to  the  Flat-Heads  was 
pale,  but  calm. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  115 

"  You  are  in  very  bad  company  to-night,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Jonaa 
Cavendish. 

' '  I  am  aware  of  it,"  Nicholas  responded,  "  but  I  have  the 
police  at  my  back  and  am  likely  to  be  protected.  Are  you  en- 
joying yourselves  ?  " 

"  Very  much  so,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish. 

"  How  much  money  have  you  left  ?  Put  every  dollar  of  it  on 
the  table  here  before  you,  or  I  will  have  you  searched  for  it." 

There  was  a  great,  though  a  painfully  reluctant,  fumbling  of 
the  pockets,  and  at  length  each  produced  the  sum  he  had  re- 
ceived from  Nicholas,  diminished  only  by  the  moderate  ex- 
penses of  the  day.  Nicholas  gathered  the  sums  together,  as- 
certained the  aggregate,  and  then  said  : 

"  Each  of  you  will  probably  want  a  dollar  for  the  expenses  of 
the  night  and  morning,  and  here  it  is.  I  will  hold  the  rest  in 
trust  for  you.  I  do  not  propose,  for  the  present,  to  treat  it  as 
my  own  ;  and  whether  you  get  it  or  not  will  depend  upon  your 
behavior." 

Then  Nicholas  called  in  the  policemen,  and  inquired  if  they 
knew  these  men.  On  being  assured  that  they  knew  them  very 
well,  and  that  they  had  known  them  a  long  time,  he  asked  them 
to  send  the  crowd  away  that  had  gathered  excitedly  around  the 
stall,  and  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say. 

The  policemen  turned  upon  the  crowd  and  sent  them  back. 
The  sale  of  liquors  had  stopped,  and  the  bar -keepers  were 
sourly  looking  on  at  a  distance.  Curtains  were  parted  along 
the  line  of  stalls,  and  curious  eyes  were  peering  out. 

"  I  want  these  three  men  to  come  to  my  room  to-morrow 
morning  at  ten  o'clock.  If  they  do  not  come,  I  shall  arrest 
them  as  vagrants,  I  shall  prosecute  them  for  conspiracy  and  for 
obtaining  money  under  false  pretenses,  and  spend  all  the  money 
that  is  necessary  to  make  them  uncomfortable  for  a  year.  I 
shall  get  them  into  the  State  Prison  if  I  can,  where  they  will  be 
taught  how  to  work.  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  attend  to  this 
matter,  and  I  propose  to  devote  myself  to  it.  Now,"  turning  t« 
the  men,  "  will  you  come  ?  " 


ai6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Better  go,  boys,"  said  one  of  the  policemen.  "  Better  go. 
He  don't  mean  you  any  mischief,  and  he'll  be  hard  on  you  if  you 
don't." 

The  three  men  looked  into  one  another's  faces.  They  were* 
suspicious,  but  they  were  helpless.  Finally,  the  missionary 
inquired  if  he  was  going  to  have  a  policeman  there. 

"  Not  a  policeman,"  said  Nicholas  emphatically.  "  I  wouldn't 
have  had  one  here,  except  for  this  damnable  crowd  of  thieves  and 
ruffians,  that  would  have  made  mincemeat  of  me  if  I  had  under- 
taken to  deal  with  you  alone,  for  you  know  I  can  whip  the  whole 
of  you." 

"  Minturn  blood,  boys  !  "  said  the  remote  relative,  by  way  of 
enlivening  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion. 

"  All  I've  got  to  say,  is,  that  if  you  don't  promise  me.  these 
policemen  will  take  charge  of  you  at  once,"  said  Nicholas  de- 
cidedly ;  "  and  that  if  you  don't  come  after  you  have  promised, 
I'll  follow  you  until  I  get  every  one  of  you  into  the  lock-up." 

"  Oh,  we'll  go,  of  course,"  said  the  missionary. 

"And  I'll  go  in  my  good  shoes,"  said  the  rheumatic  man, 
laughing. 

"  Count  on  us,"  said  the  distant  relative. 

"Will  they  keep  their  promise?"  inquired  Nicholas  of  the 
nearest  policeman. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  so.  They're  not  bad  fellows  at  heart,  and 
they'll  keep  their  word." 

This  little  compliment  went  home,  and  each  man  arose  and 
gave  his  hand  in  pledge  of  his  sincerity. 

"  All  right,  I  trust  you,"  said  Nicholas. 

Then  he  turned  and  thanked  the  policemen  for  their  service, 
and  told  Talking  Tim  that  they  would  go.  Tim  lifted  his 
basket,  and,  as  they  made  their  way  through  the  curious  assem- 
blage, the  pop-corn  man  cried  his  merchandise  : 

"  Pop  corn,  gentlemen,  just  salt  enough  !  It  strengthens  the 
appetite,  sweetens  the  breath,  beautifies  the  bar-maid,  restores 
consciousness  after  a  stroke  of  Jersey  lightning,  steadies  the 
nerves,  makes  home  happy,  quenches  thirst,  widens  sidewalks, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  aif 

and  reduces  the  police.  Five  cents  a  paper,  gentlemen,  and 

the  supply  limited  by  law.  How  many  papers  ? what  the 

?" 

Talking  Tim  had  gathered  the  whole  crowd  around  him,  in- 
cluding the  three  policemen,  who  seemed  as  much  amused  as 
the  motley  assembly  that  had  immediately  grown  quiet  and 
lamb-like  under  the  influence  of  their  presence.  His  sudden 
pause  and  exclamation  were  produced  by  seeing  Nicholas  dart 
out  of  the  door,  as  swiftly  and  furiously  as  if  he  had  been  pro- 
jected from  a  cannon.  He  did  not  pause  to  sell  the  article 
whose  virtues  he  had  so  attractively  set  forth,  but  followed 
Nicholas  as  swiftly  as  he  could  pierce  the  crowd  that  interposed 
between  him  and  the  door.  When  he  reached  the  sidewalk, 
there  was  nobody  to  be  seen.  He  heard  rapid  footsteps  in  the 
distance,  as  if  two  men  were  running,  and  knew  the  attempt  to 
follow  them  would  be  vain.  So  he  stood  still,  calculating  that 
Nicholas  would  return.  The  policemen  came  out  to  him,  at 
their  leisure,  and  questioned  him  in  their  lazy  and  indifferent 
way,  about  the  "rum  boy,"  and  prophesied  that  he  would  get 
himself  into  difficulty.  They  then  moved  off  toward  the  station. 

Talking  Tim  waited  with  great  impatience  and  distress  for 
ten  minutes,  when  Nicholas  came  up  slowly  and  alone,  panting 
with  the  violent  effort  he  had  made,  and  showing  by  his  smirched 
clothing  that  he  had  been  upon  the  ground. 

"  You  haven't  had  a  figh't  ?  "  said  Tim. 

"  No,"  said  Nicholas  painfully,  and  out  of  breath.  "  I  fell 
down." 

"  What  have  you  been  up  to  ?  " 

"  Wait.  Let  us  go  along  quietly.  Wait  till  I  get  my 
breath." 

"  You  see,"  said  Nicholas  at  length,  "  I  happened  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  an  old  acquaintance,  while  you  were  talking.  He 
opened  the  door  fairly  upon  me,  and  we  knew  each  other  at 
once.  He  was  the  man  I  saw  twice  in  connection  with  the 
OtterclifF  robbery,  and  he  wasn't  in  any  hurry  for  another  inter- 
view, and  I  was;  but  he  was  too  fast  for  me,  and  knew  the 
10 


ai8  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

sharp  corners  and  lurking-places  better  than  I  did.  I  chased 
him  to  the  water,  and  lost  him  among  the  wharves." 

"  Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  say  that  you  are  a  very  careless 
man  ?  "  inquired  Tim  with  a  respectful  air,  and  in  a  tone  that 
betrayed  almost  a  fatherly  interest. 

"I  suppose  I  ran  some  risk,"  Nicholas  responded,  "but  1 
didn't  stop  to  think." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  these  three  fellows  ?  I 
should  think  you  had  had  enough  of  them." 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  have  a  little  plan.  I  am  going  to 
think  about  it  to-night." 

When  the  oddly  matched  companions  reached  Broadway, 
they  were  not  far  from  Talking  Tim's  home,  and  there  Nicholas 
insisted  on  their  parting  for  the  night,  but  Tim  would  not  hear 
of  it  What  new  complication  Nicholas  might  find  himself  in 
before  reaching  his  apartments,  was  a  matter  of  serious  question 
with  the  pop-corn  man.  So  when  Nicholas  took  a  seat  in  a 
passing  omnibus,  Tim  followed  him  in,  refusing  to  leave  him 
until  he  saw  him  fairly  to  the  steps  of  his  home. 

"You  are  careless,"  said  Tim,  as  he  bade  Nicholas  good- 
night, "  but  I  like  you.  May  I  come  to-morrow  night  and  hear 
the  rest  of  this  story  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  interested.  You  certainly  have  earned  the 
privilege,  and  I  am  a  thousand  times  obliged  to  you  besides." 

"You'll  not  be  troubled  any  more  with  dead-beats,"  said 
Tim.  "They'll  all  know  about  this  affair  before  tomorrow 
night." 

And  with  this  assurance  they  parted. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IN  WHICH  "  TALKING  TIM  "  AIRS  HIS  OPINIONS  AND  SENTIMENTS 

ON   SUNDRY   TOPICS    INTERESTING  TO    "THE 

LARKIN    BUREAU." 

THE  affairs  of  Tim  Spencer,  the  pop-corn  man,  and  his  large 
family,  were  a  frequent  theme  of  conversation  among  the  co- 
terie that  had  its  head-quarters  in  Miss  Larkin's  little  parlor. 
Nicholas  had  helped  him  to  his  money,  in  the  way  already  re- 
corded, and  with  this  he  had  been  enabled  to  change  his  tene- 
ment to  a  more  salubrious  location,  where  the  health  of  his 
children  was  already  improving.  He  had  thus  been  measurably 
relieved  of  their  care,  and  was  again  pushing  his  humble  busi- 
ness with  industry  and  moderate  success. 

But  Tim  was  a  hard  man  for  persons  of  benevolent  impulses 
and  intentions  to  deal  with.  The  sentiment  of  manhood  and 
the  love  of  independence  were  strong  within  him.  Anything  that 
had  the  flavor  or  suggestion  of  pauperism  was  so  repulsive  to 
him  that  he  regarded  it  with  almost  a  morbid  hatred  and  con- 
tempt. He  knew  he  was  poor,  and  that  he  needed  many  things ; 
but  to  anything  that  the  hands  of  a  sympathetic  beneficence 
could  bestow,  he  preferred  the  depressing  hardship  it  would 
cost  him  and  the  self-respect  of  which  it  would  rob  him.  Every 
attempt  to  help  him  had  been  repelled,  and  he  was  fighting  his 
battle  bravely  alone. 

This  spirit  of  independence  was  one  which,  of  course,  his 
friends  admired.  Indeed,  it  was  the  principal  agent  in  evok- 
ing their  sympathy.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  to  be  helped. 
If  he  had  been  a  whining  pauper,  like  thousands  of  others 
around  them,  they  would  have  cared  less  for  him,  and  been  less 
desirous  of  assisting  him.  They  would  have  found  no  fault 
with  him  but  for  his  persistent  determination  to  shut  his  chil- 


220  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

dren  away  from  the  mission-schools.  They  had  once  been 
there,  and  then,  after  a  few  months,  he  had  withdrawn  them. 
All  the  efforts  of  teachers  and  patrons  had  not  availed  to  shake 
his  determination  that  they  should  never  resume  the  connec- 
tion. He  would  give  no  reasons  for  his  course,  but  he  had 
made  up  his  mind,  and  showed  very  plainly  that  the  whole  sub- 
ject was  distasteful  to  him. 

All  this  had  been  talked  over  at  what  Glezen  had  facetiously 
called  "The  Larkin  Bureau;"  yet  with  Miss  Coates,  to  whom 
the  word  "fail"  was  neither  familiar  nor  agreeable,  the  deter- 
mination to  secure  and  do  something  for  Tim  Spencer's  chil- 
dren remained  unshaken.  To  use  her  own  expressive  phrase, 
she  was  "bound  to  get  hold  of  them." 

Half  a  dozen  members  of  "  The  Bureau,"  including  Nicholas 
and  Glezen,  were  talking  the  matter  over  one  evening,  when 
Miss  Coates  reminded  Glezen  of  the  promise  he  had  made  at 
her  dinner  to  accompany  her  on  one  of  her  visits  to  the  poor. 
"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to  see  Tim 
Spencer,  and  to  go  this  very  evening.  Miss  Pelton  will  go 
with  us,  I  am  sure." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no  ! "  said  Miss  Pelton  at  once.  "  It  would  be 
such  larks  if  I  dared,  but  I'm  sure  my  sister  would  never  con- 
sent to  it.  Oh !  I  wouldn't  go  for  the  world.  Such  horrid 
places,  you  know,  and  such  people  ! " 

Miss  Pelton  was  one  of  those  nice,  fashionable  young  ladies, 
who  are  fond  of  handling  the  poor  with  gloves  and  at  arm's 
length.  Benevolence  was  one  of  her  amusements.  She  taught 
in  the  mission-school,  because  that  was  one  of  the  things  to  do. 
It  formed,  too,  a  satisfactory  sop  to  conscience  previous  to  the 
feasts  of  frivolity  with  which  the  following  days  and  nights 
of  the  week  were  made  merry.  When  a  member  of  the  family 
is  ill,  it  is  customary  to  feed  her  or  him  first,  that  the  dinner  of 
the  rest  may  be  enjoyed.  She  fed  her  conscience  first,  that  her 
pride,  vanity,  and  frivolity  might  dine  at  leisure. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,"  said  Miss  Larkm.  "  1  think 
that  if  you  wish  to  prosper  in  your  errand,  the  fewer  people 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  2*1 

you  take  with  you,  the  better.  Tim  Spencer  is  sensitive.  He 
does  not  like  to  be  meddled  with,  and  he  does  not  like  to  have 
gentlefolk  in  his  home.  He  is  poor,  and  feels  that  he  cannot 
meet  you  on  even  ground — that  you  can  only  look  upon  his 
humble  home  with  a  sense  of  the  contrast  that  it  presents 
to  your  own.  It  will  mortify  him  to  have  you  see  his  straitened 
rooms  and  their  homely  and  scanty  appointments.  There  is 
really  nothing  improper  in  going  alone  with  Mr.  Glezen." 

Miss  Larkin  said  all  this  to  Miss  Coates,  for  she  knew  that 
Miss  Pelton's  presence  would  be  an  embarrassment,  and  was 
only  sought  for  the  sake  of  appearances. 

All  agreed  that  she  was  right,  and,  as  for  Glezen,  he  was 
only  too  glad  to  go  with  Miss  Coates  anywhere. 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  Glezen. 

"  And  I,"  responded  Miss  Coates,  rising  to  her  feet. 

"  Come  back  and  report  to  us,"  said  Miss  Larkin. 

"  Certainly." 

Then  Glezen  and  Miss  Coates  left  the  room,  and  were  soon 
on  the  street. 

It  was  a  raw  and  chilly  night.  Little  needles  of  falling  snow 
denned  themselves  against  the  flickering  street  lamps,  the  east- 
ern wind  beat  upon  their  faces,  and  they  bent  their  heads  to  it 
and  walked  in  silence.  No  line  of  public  conveyance  favored 
their  route,  and  they  arrived  at  their  destination  only  after  a 
walk  and  a  battle  with  the  elements  which  sent  the  blood  to 
their  faces  and  the  tears  to  their  eyes. 

"You  know  I'm  nothing  but  a  passenger,  to-night,"  said 
Glezen  to  his  companion,  as  they  stamped  their  feet  upon  the 
door-steps.  "You  are  to  win  a  victory  to-night  and  I'm  to  see 
you  do  it." 

"  Very  well,  show  me  the  enemy,"  said  Miss  Coates. 

They  entered  a  hall  which  would  have  been  utterly  dark  had 
it  not  been  for  a  feeble  lantern  hung  at  the  top  of  the  first  stair- 
case. They  mounted  to  the  second  story,  meeting  on  the  way 
a  slatternly  woman,  with  a  basket,  who  stared  at  them  until 
they  had  passed  above  her  sight,  in  mounting  the  second  flight 


sis  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

of  stairs.  On  the  third  floor,  they  came  to  a  door  that  bore  the 
printed  card  of  "T.  Spencer."  It  was  evidently  cut  from  a 
pop-corn  paper,  but  it  was  the  first  sign  of  civilization  they  had 
discovered  in  the  building. 

Glezen  rapped,  without  hesitation. 

There  was  a  hurried  conversation  inside,  a  moving  of  chairs, 
a  hustling  of  unsightly  things  into  closets  and  corners,  and  then 
Tim  himself  opened  the  door.  He  showed  plainly  that  the  call 
was  anything  but  a  pleasant  surprise.  With  all  the  nonchalance 
and  impudence  which  he  was  accustomed  to  use  in  pushing  his 
trade  outside,  he  was  abashed  by  the  beautiful  face  and  richly 
draped  figure  that  Miss  Coates  presented.  He  grew  pale  at 
first,  then  he  blushed,  and  then  there  came  to  his  help  his  un- 
bartered  sense  of  manhood.  He  shook  hands  cordially  with 
Glezen,  and  with  Miss  Coates,  as  she  was  presented  to  him. 
Turning,  as  self-respectfully  as  if  he  were  a  lord,  he  introduced 
the  pair  to  Mrs.  Spencer  and  a  young  daughter  who  hovered 
at  the  uncertain  age  between  girlhood  and  womanhood. 
Bringing  chairs  for  them,  he  invited  them  to  be  seated. 

Miss  Coates  had  seen  everything  at  a  glance.  The  room 
was  of  fair  dimensions,  and  as  neat  in  appearance  as  it  could  be 
kept  with  the  crowded  life  that  made  it  its  home.  The  mother 
was  a  pale  woman,  worn  and  weary-looking,  and  plainly  dressed, 
with  a  snowy  white  kerchief  pinned  around  her  throat.  She 
held  in  her  lap  a  baby,  convalescent  from  a  long  illness,  that 
fretted  constantly,  and  seemed  disturbed  by  the  entrance  of  the 
visitors.  The  daughter  was  evidently  overworked,  but  presented 
a  good  physique.  The  other  children  had  gone  to  bed,  with  the 
exception  of  Bob,  whose  name  and  character  have  been  already 
incidentally  introduced  to  the  reader,  in  a  conversation  in 
Glezen's  office.  He  sat  in  the  chimney-corner,  with  both  feet 
upon  the  jamb,  engaged  in  the  congenial  employment  of  chew- 
ing gum,  and  occasionally  spitting  through  an  orifice  made  in 
his  upper  jaw  by  the  loss  of  a  tooth — a  loss  (as  he  afterwards 
explained  to  Miss  Coates)  that  had  been  sustained  in  a  "game 
scrimmage  with  a  Mickey." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN,  223 

There  was  something  about  the  air  of  Tim  Spencer,  in  his 
nouse,  and  in  the  presence  of  his  wife  and  daughter,  that  made 
it  impossible  for  Glezen  to  address  him  by  his  familiar  title. 

"  Mr.  Spencer,"  he  said,  "  Miss  Coates  has  a  little  business 
with  you,  I  believe,  and  I  am  here  simply  as  her  protector." 

"I  suspect  what  the  business  is,"  said  Tim.  "I  suspected 
it  when  I  first  set  my  eyes  on  her ;  and  I  am  sorry  she  has  come 
so  far,  on  so  unpleasant  a  night,  to  be  disappointed." 

Miss  Coates  laughed,  in  her  own  hearty  way,  and  presented 
a  very  pretty  picture  as  she  turned  towards  him,  with  her  ruddy 
face,  merry  eyes,  and  dazzling  teeth,  and  said : 

"  Shall  we  go  away  now  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Tim. 

Bob  understood  the  business  quite  as  readily  as  his  father 
did,  and,  instead  of  facing  the  group,  turned  his  back  upon  it, 
put  his  feet  a  little  higher  up  upon  the  jamb,  chewed  his  gum 
more  furiously,  and  spat  with  greater  frequency.  He  knew 
that  he  was  to  be  the  subject  of  the  conversation,  and  so  placed 
himself  in  a  judicial  attitude. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Coates,  "  I  have  come  for  your  children. 
I  want  them  in  my  mission-school." 

"  They  have  been  there  once — not  in  yours,  perhaps,  but 
they  have  been  there,"  said  Tim. 

"Now,"  said  Glezen,  "tell  her  frankly  what  the  trouble  is. 
People  who  have  been  here,  and  who  mean  well  toward  you 
and  yours,  say  you  won't  talk  about  it ;  and  they  think  you  are 
unreasonable." 

"  I'm  not  an  unreasonable  man,"  said  Tim,  "  and  I  don't 
mean  to  be  foolishly  proud.  I  certainly  don't  intend  to  hurt 
the  feelings  of  those  who  have  tried  to  do  good  to  my  children. 
The  truth  is  I  can't  tell  them  how  I  feel  without  hurting  them, 
and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  have  refused  to  talk.  I  am  going 
to  talk  now,  since  you  insist  on  it,  and  tell  you  the  whole  story-. 
They  have  done  my  children  harm.  They  didn't  intend  it,  of 
course,  but  they  don't  understand  their  business." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Coates  eagerly. 


224  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  If  I  show  some  earnestness  in  this  matter,"  said  Tim  Spen- 
cer, "  you  must  forgive  me,  for  you  have  told  me  to  speak,  and 
I  have  been  so  besought  and  badgered  that  I  must  tell  you  just 
how  strongly  I  feel  about  it. 

"  I  heard  a  good  deal  of  preaching  in  the  early  part  of  my 
life.  If  I  am  not  a  good  man,  I  have  myself  to  blame  for  it. 
Of  late  years  I  haven't  been  able  to  own  a  seat  in  any  church, 
and  I  have  stayed  at  home.  I  have  a  theory  that  a  church 
ought  to  be  the  house  of  God,  where  men  and  women  of  all 
grades  and  all  circumstances  can  meet  on  an  even  footing. 
None  but  the  Catholics  have  such  a  church  here,  and  I'm  not 
a  Catholic.  So  I  and  my  children  have  no  place  to  go  to,  and 
we  have  our  choice  between  heathenism  and  pauperism,  and* I 
haven't  hesitated  to  choose  the  former.  A  heathen  may  main- 
tain his  self-respect ;  a  confirmed  and  willing  pauper,  never. 
Let  a  man,  woman,  or  child  once  get  the  impression  that  they 
are  to  be  supported  by  people  outside  of  their  family — let  them 
be  once  willing  and  greedy  to  grasp  for  benefactions  that  will 
relieve  them  from  want  and  work — and  they  are  lost." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  mission-schools,"  in- 
terjected Miss  Coates. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  has  to  do  with  them,"  said  Tim.  "You 
bring  my  children  first  into  direct  association  with  paupers. 
More  than  half  of  your  schools  are  made  up  of  the  children  of 
people  who  care  nothing  whatever  for  the  schools,  except  what 
they  can  get  out  of  them.  The  children  are  taught  at  home  to 
select  for  their  teachers,  as  far  as  possible,  those  who  are  rich 
and  generous.  They  even  divide  their  children  among  differ- 
ent schools  in  order  to  secure  their  ends.  They  send  them  to 
school  to  get  them  clothed,  and  to  open  channels  of  sympathy 
and  benevolence  toward  themselves.  They  take  advantage  of 
your  interest  to  push  their  own  selfish  schemes.  They  even 
assume  the  attitude  of  those  who  grant  a  favor,  and  they  ex- 
pect to  get  some  tangible  return  for  it.  They  lend  their  chil- 
dren to  you  for  a  consideration." 

"  I  am  afraid  this  is  partly  true,"  Miss  Coates  responded. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  225 

"True?  I  know  it's  true,"  said  Tim,  "and  you  teachers 
play  directly  into  their  hands.  You  don't  intend  to  do  it,  but 
you  do  it ;  and  you  do  something  worse  than  this.  You  foster 
the  spirit  of  dependence.  It  is  a  part  of  the  business  of  your 
church  to  support  a  mission,  and  it  is  the  policy  of  your  church 
to  keep  it  dependent  upon  you.  You  do  not  even  try  to  de- 
velop your  mission  into  a  self-supporting  church.  You  find 
your  children  mainly  paupers,  and  you  keep  them  so,  and  once 
a  year  you  march  the  whole  brood  over  to  your  big  church  and 
show  them — not  as  a  part  of  the  children  of  your  church,  but 
as  a  separate  and  alien  brood,  with  which  the  real  children  of 
the  church  have  nothing  in  common.  You  do  not  attempt  to 
give  them  any  practical  idea  of  their  responsibilities  in  connec- 
tion with  Christian  work,  and  when  they  leave  you  they  go 
without  a  single  impulse  to  take  care  of  themselves." 

Miss  Coates  felt  all  this  to  be  true.  She  had  seen  the  class 
distinction  between  the  supporting  church  and  the  dependent 
mission  carried  into  every  department  of  the  enterprise.  She 
had  seen  the  teachers  who  had  been  developed  in  the  mission 
socially  snubbed,  and  knew  that  nothing  was  farther  from  the 
thought  and  policy  of  the  church  than  the  development  of  the 
mission  into  a  self-directing  and  self-supporting  body  of  dis- 
ciples. She  knew  that  her  church  looked  upon  the  mission 
as  a  sort  of  preserve,  where  her  own  young  people  could 
be  trained  in  Christian  service,  and  where  the  beneficiaries 
should  be  forever  treated  as  paupers.  In  truth,  her  demo- 
cratic instincts  were  bringing  her  rapidly  into  sympathy  with 
Talking  Tim. 

"Here's  Bob,"  Tim  went  on.  "He  caught  the  wretched 
pauper  spirit  in  less  than  two  weeks  after  he  began  to  go  to  a 
mission-school.  I  found  that  he  had  straddled  two  Sunday- 
schools,  and  went  to  one  in  the  morning  and  another  in  the 
afternoon  ;  and  when  I  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  it,  he  in- 
formed me  that  he  was  '  on  the  make,'  and  intended  to  get  two 
sets  of  presents  at  Christmas  time." 

Glezen  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  laugh  at  this,  while 
10* 


226  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Bob  himself  condescended  to  smile,  and  change  his  gum  to  the 
other  side  of  his  mouth. 

"  I  found,"  said  Tim,  "  that  the  only  interest  he  had  in  either 
school  was  based  upon  the  presents  he  could  win,  and  that  he 
and  all  his  companions  thought  more  of  these  than  of  anything 
else.  I  verily  believe  that  he  thought  he  was  conferring  a  great 
favor  upon  the  schools  by  attending  them,  and  that  his  teachers 
owed  him  a  debt,  payable  in  candy  or  picture-books.  I  believe, 
too,  that  their  treatment  of  him  fostered  this  idea." 

"  But  what  can  we  do  ? "  inquired  Miss  Coates  in  distress. 
"  What  can  we  do  ?  Shall  we  let  these  poor  children  live  in  the 
streets,  and  play  in  the  gutter,  when,  by  a  little  self-denial,  we 
can  bring  them  together  and  teach  them  the  truth,  and  train 
them  to  sing  Christian  songs?  Children  are  children,  and  I 
don't  know  that  poor  children  are  any  more  fond  of  gifts  than 
the  children  of  the  rich." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  can  do :  open  your  churches  to 
them.  Give  them,  for  one  day  in  the  week,  association  with 
your  own  children.  That  would  be  a  privilege  that  even  their 
parents  could  comprehend,  and  it  would  do  your  children  as 
much  good  as  it  would  them  to  learn  that,  in  the  eye  of  the  One 
who  made  them  all,  worldly  circumstances  are  of  little  account, 
and  that  Christianity  is  a  brotherly  thing  if  it  is  anything  at  all. 
True  Christianity  never  patronizes  ;  it  always  fraternizes." 

Poor  Miss  Coates  was  utterly  silenced.  She  had  come  to 
plead  with  such  eloquence  as  she  possessed  for  a  hold  upon 
this  man's  children,  and  she  had  received  a  lesson  which  had 
opened  her  eyes  to  the  essential  weakness  of  her  position  and 
her  cause.  Tim,  in  his  poverty,  had  thought  it  all  out,  and  she 
saw  very  plainly  that  there  was  another  side  to  a  question  which 
she  had  supposed  could  have  but  one. 

Tim  saw  that  she  was  troubled,  and  in  the  kindest  tone  con- 
tinued : 

"  I  have  felt  compelled  to  justify  myself  to  you,  and  now,  as 
I  am  talking,  I  would  like  to  say  just  another  word.  When  Bob 
was  going  to  the  mission-schools,  I  used  to  try  to  find  out  what 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  227 

he  was  learning,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  was  surprised  with  the 
result.  I  give  you  my  word  that  it  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  Christianity.  One  would  suppose  that  a  body  of  Christian 
teachers,  with  five  hundred  or  a  thousand  poor  children  in  their 
hands  every  Sunday,  would  try  to  make  Christians  of  them. 
Now,  I  can't  understand  what  the  history  of  the  Jews  has  to  do 
with  a  child's  Christianity.  We  have  Jews  enough  now.  It 
isn't  desirable  to  increase  the  sect.  These  children  need  to 
learn  how  to  be  good ;  and  I  can't  comprehend  how  the  fact 
that  Jonah  lay  three  days  and  three  nights  in  a  whale's  belly  is 
going  to  affect  their  characters  or  their  purposes.  Bob  came 
very  near  putting  out  the  eye  of  his  little  sister  with  a  sling, 
with  which  he  was  trying  to  imitate  or  celebrate  David's  en- 
counter with  Goliah." 

"  Doesn't  it  strike  you  that  you  are  a  little  severe  ?  "  said 
Miss  Coates,  biting  her  lips  and  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Perhaps  I  am,  and  I  won't  say  anything  more,"  said  Tim. 
"  This  daughter  of  mine,  poor  child,  must  be  at  home  to  help 
her  mother.  The  other  children,  with  the  exception  of  Bob, 
are  too  young  to  go  out  in  this  rough  season.  If  Bob  is  willing 
to  go,  I  will  make  no  objection.  He  can  hardly  be  doing 
worse  anywhere  than  he  is  doing  at  home,  and  I'll  consent  to 
another  experiment." 

"Well,  Robert,"  said  Miss  Coates  pleasantly,  "it  rests  with 
you." 

"  Humph  ! "  exclaimed  Bob,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
and  an  extra  ejaculation  of  saliva.  "  'Robert*  is  good.  That's 
regular  Sunday-school." 

"  Very  well — Bob,"  said  Miss  Coates  sharply,  "  if  you  like 
that  better." 

"  Yes,  sir-ee,  Bob,"  responded  the  lad. 

"Will  you  go,  Bob?" 

"  What'll  you  gimme  ?  " 

"  Instruction  and  kind  treatment,"  replied  Miss  Coates. 

"  Oh,  take  me  out !  R-r-r-r-remove  me  I  "  said  Bob,  rolling 
his  r  with  remarkable  skill. 


228  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Don't  you  want  instruction  ?  " 

"  No,  that's  played  out." 

"  You'll  need  it,  my  boy." 

"  I'm  not  your  boy." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Coates,  turning  to  Tim 
with  a  helpless  appeal. 

"Bob,"  said  his  father,  "answer  this  lady  properly." 

"Well,"  said  Bob,  "I  axed  her  what  she'd  gimme,  but  she 
won't  pony  up  anything  but  instruction,  and  that's  a  thing  I 
can't  eat  and  can't  swap.  I  don't  want  no  instruction.  If  I 
go,  I  can  bring  another  feller.  Larry  Concannon  an'  me 
always  goes  pards." 

"  Who  is  Larry  Concannon  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Coates. 

"  Oh,  he's  a  little  Mickey  round  the  corner.  Now,  what'll 
ye  gimme  for  two  fellers,  and  I'll  fetch  'em  both — me  and 
Larry  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  said  Miss  Coates  decidedly. 

"  Bets  are  off,"  said  the  imperturbable  Bob. 

"  And  you  won't  go  ?  " 

"  Nary  once.     It  don't  pay." 

As  the  talk  had  been  incessant,  and  somewhat  earnest  during 
the  interview,  the  little  patient  in  Mrs.  Spencer's  lap  grew 
more  and  more  fretful,  and  Miss  Coates  saw  that  the  weary 
mother  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  All  her  attempts  at 
soothing  were  of  no  avail,  and,  at  last,  the  feeble  little  creature 
set  up  a  dismal  wail.  Miss  Coates  looked  at  it,  in  its  white 
night-dress,  and,  sympathetic  with  the  mother's  weariness,  rose 
to  her  feet,  threw  off  her  fur  wrapper,  and  approached  the 
child  with  a  smiling  face  and  extended  hands.  The  little 
one  was  conquered  by  the  face  and  the  offered  help,  and  put 
up  its  emaciated  hands  in  consent.  The  next  moment  it  was 
in  the  young,  strong  arms,  that  bore  it  back  and  forth  through 
the  room.  The  child  looked,  with  its  lai^e  hollow  eyes,  into 
the  beautiful  face  that  bent  above  it,  for  a  long  time  ;  then 
gradually  its  tired  eyelids  fell,  and  it  was  asleep.  A  door  was 
opened  by  the  mother  into  an  adjoining  apartment,  and  into 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  229 

it  Miss  Coates  bore  her  burden,  and  deposited  it  in  its  nest. 
For  a  few  minutes  the  two  women  stopped  and  whispered 
together. 

Meantime  Bob  had  been  watching  the  whole  operation  over 
his  shoulder.  The  first  effect  upon  him  was  an  increased  ac- 
tivity of  his  jaws,  and  the  more  frequent  outward  evidence  of 
the  secretion  of  his  salivary  glands.  Then  he  began  to  mut- 
ter a  great  number  of  oaths.  He  did  not  intend  them  for  any- 
body's ears,  but  he  was  engaged  in  an  inward  struggle  with  a 
foe  that  seemed  to  demand  rough  treatment.  To  betray  Bob 
utterly,  they  were  benedictions  in  the  form  of  curses.  The 
"  God  bless  you  "  of  his  heart,  took  a  very  strange  form  upon 
his  lips.  He  was  fighting  his  tears.  The  beautiful  woman, 
with  his  own  little  sister  in  her  arms,  borne  backward  and  for- 
ward in  grace  and  strength  and  sympathy,  the  relief  that  came 
to  his  mother's  patient  face,  the  stillness,  all  moved  him,  and 
putting  his  rough  coat-sleeve  to  his  eyes,  he  began  to  shake 
convulsively. 

Glezen  saw  it,  and  was  glad.  He  had  all  along  fancied  that 
the  boy  had  something  good  in  him,  although  he  saw  that  he 
was  rough  and  irreverent.  He  could  have  taken  him  to  his 
heart  as  Miss  Coates  had  taken  his  sister,  for  sympathy  in  his 
emotion ;  for  he  had  not  been  unmoved,  himself,  by  this  little 
"  aside  "  in  the  drama  of  the  evening. 

When  Miss  Coates  reappeared,  Bob  had  succeeded  in  swal- 
lowing not  only  his  emotion  but  his  gum.  Then  in  an  in- 
different, swaggering  tone — carefully  indifferent — he  said  : 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  go  to  your  old  Sunday-school,  if  you  want 
me  to.  I  reckon  you  mean  to  be  fair.  Larry  and  me'll  come, 
I  guess." 

It  was  quite  easy  for  all  the  auditors  to  give  smiling  glances 
at  each  other,  for  Bob  sat  with  his  back  to  the  gioup,  and  was 
steadily  looking  into  the  chimney. 

"  All  right ! "  said  Miss  Coates,  "  and  now  I'll  go.  At  nine 
o'clock,  remember." 

''Well,  I  don't  know  whether  I'll  be  there  on  time  or  not," 


130  NICHOLAS  M1NTURN. 

«atd  Bob.  "You'll  have  trouble  with  me.  You'll  find  out 
that  I'm  no  sardine." 

All  laughed  at  this ;  but  Bob  was  sure  that  he  was  a  hard 
boy  to  manage,  and  took  appropriate  pride  in  his  character. 

«'  You'll  see,"  he  said. 

And  with  this  suggestive  warning  in  her  ears,  Miss  Coates, 
with  her  escort,  bade  the  family  "  good  evening,"  and  departed 
to  rejoin,  and  report  to,  her  friends. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ZN  WHICH  MISS  COATES   CURES   A  VERY   BAD   BOY'S   DISPOSITION 
BY   OUTWARD    APPLICATIONS. 

BOB  SPENCER  had  made  a  concession,  but  it  went  no  furthei 
than  the  promise  to  join  the  class  of  Miss  Coates.  He  had  his 
character  as  a  bad  boy  to  maintain,  and  he  confidently  calcu- 
lated that  she  would  get  enough  of  him  in  a  single  Sunday,  to 
be  willing  to  release  him  from  his  promise.  He  held  all  mild 
and  conciliatory  modes  of  treatment  in  contempt.  The  "  regu- 
lar Sunday-school "  regimen  was  but  warm  milk  and  water  to 
Bob.  He  regarded  it  as  a  sort  of  trick,  or  policy,  and  steeled 
himself  against  it.  If  he  had  not  seen  that  the  impulse  of  Miss 
Coates,  in  relieving  his  mother,  was  hearty  and  sincere,  and 
had  not  the  slightest  reference  to  himself,  it  would  not  have 
affected  him. 

Larry  Concannon,  the  little  "  Mickey  "  who  stood  in  the  re- 
lation of  "pard"  to  Bob,  resembled  him  in  no  particular. 
Larry  was  a  slender  lad,  whom  Bob  had  taken  under  his  wing 
for  protection.  If  Larry  was  insulted  or  overborne,  Bob  did 
the  fighting.  The  two  boys  were  inseparable  on  the  street — 
a  fact  that  was  agreeable  to  Bob  in  many  ways.  It  gave  him 
two  chances  for  a  fight,  when  most  bullies  enjoyed  but  one. 
The  imaginary  chip  which  his  companions  bore  upon  their 
shoulders  as  a  challenge,  was,  in  this  case,  multiplied  by  two. 
Larry  bore  one  of  them,  and  he  the  other,  and  in  defending 
both,  he  had  a  lively  and  interesting  time.  Larry,  too,  was  a 
profound  admirer  of  Bob,  so  that  the  latter  always  had  at  hand 
an  appreciative  witness  and  a  responsive  auditor.  Larry  laughed 
at  all  Bob's  jokes,  echoed  his  slang,  praised  his  prowess,  and 
made  him  his  boast  among  the  other  boys.  In  short,  he  was 
Bob's  most  affectionate  slave — a  trusting  and  willing  follower 


232  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

into  all  his  schemes  of  mischief,  and  a  loyal  servant  to  his  will 
in  all  things. 

Bob  took  occasion,  on  the  next  morning  after  the  call  of 
Miss  Coates,  to  inform  Larry  of  the  engagement  he  had  made 
for  himself  and  on  his  friend's  behalf;  and  he  bade  him  be  ready 
at  the  appointed  day  and  hour. 

"  Put  on  your  best  rig,  Larry,"  said  Bob.  "  You  and  me's 
going  to  be  little  lambs,  we  is." 

Larry  laughed,  as  in  duty  bound,  at  this  fancy. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  inquired  Larry  confidentially. 

"  I  am  going  to  make  the  teacher  cry,"  Bob  replied.  "  And 
I'm  going  to  catch  her  tears  in  my  hat,  and  peddle  'em  at  ten 
cents  a  quart." 

Larry  went  into  convulsions  of  laughter,  while  Bob  put  on 
the  sober  airs  of  one  who  did  not  think  very  much,  either  of  his 
wit  or  his  power  of  mischief. 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  took  up,"  suggested  Larry. 

"  Oh,  pard !  you  don't  know  nothing.  That  aint  the  Sunday- 
school  style,"  said  Bob.  ' '  We's  lambs,  we  is.  They'll  put  a 
blue  ribbon  round  our  necks,  and  hang  a  bell  to  it,  and  call  us 
pretty  names,  and  feed  us  with  sugar-plums.  That's  the  way 
they  do.  The  worse  you  treat  'em,  the  more  they  love  ye. 
I've  tried  'em.  Ye  can't  tell  me." 

Larry  had  some  doubts  about  the  experiment,  and  expressed 
them,  but  Bob  said  : 

"You  needn't  do  nothin'.  You  jest  keep  your  eye  open, 
and  see  me  do  it.  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  that  would  lay  his 
hand  on  me  !  Do  you  twig  that  ?  " 

Before  Larry  could  dodge,  or  guess  what  Bob  was  doing,  he 
realized  that  his  forelock  was  in  Bob's  fingers,  and  Bob's  thumb- 
nail was  pressed  gently  in  above  his  left  eye. 

"  Oh,  don't ! " 

"That's  what  the  fellow  '11  say  that  lays  his  finger  on  thi* 
lamb,"  said  Bob,  decidedly. 

And  Larry  implicitly  believed  it. 

A  preparation  for  the  expected  encounter  was,  meantime. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  533 

going  on  in  the  mind  of  the  spirited  lady  who  was  to  be  his 
teacher.  She  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  try  her  patience, 
and  she  knew  that,  under  insult  and  provocation,  she  had  but 
little  of  that  virtue.  She  determined,  therefore,  that  on  that 
particular  Sunday  morning  she  would  lay  in  an  extra  stock  of 
it.  She  had  seen  that  there  was  a  tender  spot  in  Bob.  She 
had  touched  his  heart,  and  she  believed  that  he  liked  her.  So 
she  determined  that  she  would  conquer  him  by  kindness,  and 
that  no  provocation,  however  gross,  should  betray  her  into 
anger.  When  the  Sunday  morning  came,  Bob  and  Larry  were 
sharply  on  time,  and,  meeting  Miss  Coates  at  the  door  of  the 
mission,  accompanied  her  to  her  seat.  In  accordance  with  an 
old  custom  of  the  leading  "  lamb  "  of  the  pair,  he  secured  a 
seat  at  the  head  of  the  form,  for  greater  convenience  in  the 
transaction  of  the  mischief  he  had  proposed  to  himself;  and  he 
began  his  work  by  thrusting  out  his  foot  and  tripping  up  the 
muffled  little  figures  that  went  by  him.  Several  children  fell 
their  full  length  upon  the  floor,  and  went  on  up  the  hall,  cry- 
ing, with  bumped  heads.  Finding  that  nothing  but  gentle  re- 
primands were  called  forth  by  these  operations,  he  extended 
his  field  by  pulling  convenient  hair ;  and  when  the  recitation 
of  the  lesson  began,  he  gave  all  sorts  of  wild  answers  to  the 
most  serious  questions.  In  short,  the  class  was  in  a  hubbub 
of  complaint  or  laughter  from  the  beginning  of  the  hour  to  the 
end. 

Miss  Coates  had  need  of  all  the  patience  she  had  determined 
to  exercise,  and  when  she  found  fhat  she  could  do  nothing  with 
the  boy,  or  with  her  class,  she  called  Bob  to  her  side,  put  her 
arm  around  him,  and  gave  him  a  long  and  quiet  talk.  She  was 
quick  enough  to  see  that  he  was  making  fun  of  it  all,  by  sundry 
winks  thrown  over  his  shoulder  at  Larry,  who  was  not  too  much 
scared  to  respond  with  a  confident  grin.  Bob  was  ready  to  pro- 
mise anything,  and  became  so  quiet  at  last  that  she  hoped  she 
had  made  an  impression. 

When  the  school  was  dismissed,  Miss  Coates  bade  Bob  and 
Larry  "good  morning,"  and  told  them  they  must  be  sure  to  be 


234  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

in  their  seats  on  the.  following  Sunday.  The  promise  was  readily 
given,  as  Bob  had  not  yet  made  her  cry.  The  passage  to  the 
door  was  accompanied  by  various  squeals  and  complaints ;  and 
a  great  many  more  children  fell  down  than  usual. 

After  Miss  Coates  had  gone  half  of  her  way  homeward,  a  snow- 
ball whizzed  by  her  ear.  On  looking  quickly  around,  she  saw 
the  two  boys  following  her  at  a  distance,  and  knew  from  whose 
hand  the  missile  had  proceeded.  She  could  not  believe,  how- 
ever, that  the  little  rascal  was  using  her  for  a  target ;  but  the 
next  ball  struck  her  fairly  between  her  shoulders.  She  could  do 
nothing,  and  no  one  was  near  to  act  as  her  defender.  She 
quickened  her  pace,  and  her  persecutor  and  his  companion 
quickened  theirs.  There  was  no  getting  away  from  them.  The 
snow-balls  increased  in  frequency.  Sometimes  they  hit  her, 
and  sometimes  they  went  by  her.  She  saw  ladies  behind  the 
windows  watching  and  commenting  upon  the  strange  and  dis- 
graceful scene,  yet  not  a  man  appeared  to  turn  back  her  merci- 
less pursuers.  Her  patience  at  last  gave  way.  She  was  filled 
with  shame  and  rage ;  and  she  had  just  reached  and  mounted 
the  steps  of  her  home,  when  a  final  shot  hit  her  head  and  hurt 
her  cruelly. 

On  the  landing,  at  the  top  of  the  flight,  she  turned  and  said 
in  a  kind  voice  : 

"  Come  Bob,  come  in.     I  want  to  give  you  something." 

Bob  turned  to  Larry  and  said  :  "  We's  lambs,  we  is.  I'm 
agoin'  in.  Say  ! "  (addressing  Miss  Coates),  "  can  Larry  come 
in?" 

"No,  I  haven't  anything  for  him." 

"  I'll  give  ye  a  taste  of  it,"  said  Bob,  by  way  of  consolation 
to  his  "  pard."  "You  stay  out,  and  knock  around,  and  I'll  be 
out  afore  long." 

Bob  was  well  used  to  this  kind  of  thing,  and  went  in  as 
unsuspectingly  as  if  he  had  been  really  the  "lamb"  that  he 
called  himself.  He  mounted  the  steps  at  leisure,  looking  up 
sweetly  into  the  face  of  his  teacher,  and  followed  her  into  the 
hall. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  335 

"  Take  off  your  cap,"  said  Miss  Coates,  "  and  walk  into  thf 
parlor.  You'll  see  a  great  many  pretty  things  there." 

Bob  accepted  the  invitation,  and  took  an  observation.  Mean- 
tLne,  Miss  Coates  slipped  off  her  overshoes,  removed  her  dam- 
aged hat,  her  bespattered  furs  and  her  gloves,  and  went  into 
the  parlor  and  warmed  her  hands.  She  found  Bob  examining 
the  pictures. 

"  Scrum  house  !  "  said  Bob. 
"Do  you  think  so ?  "  responded  Miss  Coates. 
"  Yes,  I  don't  think  I  ever  see  one  so  scrum  as  this,"  said 
Bob  in  a  patronizing  tone. 

Then  he  planted  himself  before  a  picture  in  the  attitude  of  an 
admiring  connoisseur,  with  his  two  hands  behind  him,  holding 
his  cap.  He  had  just  opened  his  mouth  to  make  some  appre- 
ciative or  complimentary  remark,  when  he  suddenly  found  that 
he  had  been  approached  from  the  rear,  and  that  a  supple  but 
inflexible  hand  had  him  by  the  hair. 

Bob  made  no  outcry.  He  didn't  even  wink.  He  knew, 
however,  that  he  was  undergoing  a  new  kind  of  Sunday-school 
treatment,  and  suddenly  prepared  himself  for  the  worst.  He 
could  not  stir  to  the  right  or  left.  He  could  not  make  a  mo- 
tion which  did  not  add  a  new  spasm  to  his  agony. 

The  next  sensation  was  a  box  upon  the  cheek  and  ear  that 
gave  him  a  vision  of  a  whole  galaxy  of  stars.  Then  the  other 
cheek  and  ear  were  treated  to  a  complementary  blow.  He 
stood  like  a  post,  and  ground  his  teeth  in  pain.  He  would 
have  scorned  the  weakness  of  crying  ;  and  not  a  tear  was  per- 
mitted to  fall.  The  blows  came  thicker  and  faster,  until  he 
hardly  knew  who  he  was,  or  where  he  was.  His  brain  was 
stunned,  his  ears  and  cheeks  tingled  and  burned,  but  he  would 
not  have  cried  for  quarter  if  she  had  half  killed  him. 

When  her  hands  were  tired,  Miss  Coates  led  her  prisoner  to 
the  door,  and  said  : 

"  Bob,  I  don't  want  Larry  to  see  that  I  have  flogged  you, 
and  if  you  will  go  peaceably  out  of  the  door,  I'll  take  my  hand 
from  you." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  All  right !  I'll  go,"  said  Bob,  between  his  teeth, — and  he 
went  without  pausing  a  moment. 

Miss  Coates  closed  the  door  after  him,  and  then,  with  trem- 
bling limbs,  went  directly  to  her  room.  She  had  strength  to 
wash  her  hands,  and  then  she  locked  her  door,  threw  herself  in- 
to an  easy-chair,  and  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  and  almost 
hysterical  fit  of  crying.  Her  kindness  had  been  trampled  upon, 
her  scheme  was  a  failure,  she  had  been  maltreated  and  in- 
sulted, and,  worst  of  all,  she  had  been  tempted  to  take  ven- 
geance into  her  own  hands,  and  had  lost  the  boys  whom  she  had 
hoped  to  mend  and  to  help. 

Bob  found  the  street  in  a  dizzy  condition.  Larry  was  waiting 
a  few  rods  away,  and,  eagerly  expectant,  came  up  to  him. 

"  Say,  Larry,  are  my  cheeks  red  ?  "  said  Bob. 

"  Red  aint  no  name  fer1!,"  said  Larry. 

"  It  was  awful  hot  in  there,"  remarked  Bob,  as  they  quietly 
resumed  the  backward  track. 

"  Well,  I  never  see  hotness  make  such  marks  as  them,"  said 
Larry. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  ye,  Larry,  'cause  I'm  ashamed  to  be 
kissed  by  women.  Don't  you  never  blow,  now.  Such  huggin' 
and  kissin'  you  never  see  in  your  life.  That  biz  and  the  fire 
jest  about  finished  me  up." 

Larry  had  been  waiting  very  impatiently  to  hear  something 
about  the  material  benefits  of  the  call,  and  to  receive  his  prom- 
ised share ;  and,  as  Bob  appeared  to  forget  this  most  import- 
ant matter,  he  said  : 

"  What  did  she  give  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  knew  ?  " 

'  You  said  you'd  give  me  some  of  it." 

"  Oh,  Larry,  you  wouldn't  like  it.  It  wasn't  anything  to  eat 
I  can't  cut  up  a  gold  breast-pin,  ye  know,  with  a  big  diamond 
into  it.  Now,  you  jest  shut  up  on  that." 

Poor  Larry  was  disappointed,  but  he  saw  that  Bob  was  not 
in  a  mood  for  talk,  and  so  withheld  further  questions. 

But  a  great  tumult  was  raging  in  Bob's  breast.     The  reaction 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  237 

i 
had  set  in,  and  he  found  that  he  could  contain  himself  but  little 

longer.     Coming  to  a  narrow  lane  that  led  to  a  stable,  he  said : 

"Larry,  let's  go  in  here.     I'm  kind  o'  sick." 

A  bare  curb-stone  presented  itself  as  a  convenient  seat,  and 
the  two  boys  sat  down,  Bob  burying  his  face  in  his  mittens. 
Larry  did  not  understand  the  matter,  but  he  watched  Bob  curi- 
ously, and  saw  him  begin  to  shake,  and  convulsively  try  to 
swallow  something.  Then  the  flood-gates  gave  way,  and  Bob 
cried  as  if  his  heart  were  broken. 

"  Say,  Bob !  what's  the  matter  ? "  said  Larry,  in  a  tone  of 
sympathy. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Bob  responded,  with  a  new  burst  of 
grief,  and  with  suspirations  quite  as  powerful  as  those  with 
which  his  teacher  was  exercised  at  the  same  moment. 

"  Come,  you  shall  tell,  Bob,"  Larry  persisted. 

"  She  got  the  bu — bu — bulge  on  me  ! "  exclaimed  Bob,  sob- 
bing heavily — by  which  he  intended  to  indicate  that  she  had 
had  the  advantage  of  him  in  a  struggle. 

"  And  what  did  she  do  ?  "  inquired  Larry. 

"  She  pu — pu — put  a  French  roof  on  me,  and  a — a — a  cu- 
pola— and  a — a — a  liberty-pole,  and  a — gold  ball !  " 

And  then  Bob  bawled  in  good  earnest.  It  was  all  out  now, 
and  he  was  at  liberty  to  cry  until  nature  was  satisfied.  He  was 
utterly  humiliated  and  conquered,  and,  worse  than  all,  his  pres- 
tige with  Larry  was  destroyed,  or  he  felt  it  to  be  so. 

When  his  overwhelming  passion  had  in  a  degree  subsided, 
Larry  said  : 

"  I  think  she  was  real  mean.  I  never  would  go  near  her  old 
school  again." 

"  Now,  you  dry  up,"  said  Bob,  and  then  he  began  to  laugh. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  tears  that  the  little  reprobate  had  shed  had 
absorbed  all  the  vicious  humors  of  his  brain,  and  left  him  purged 
and  sweet. 

"  I  shall  go  again,  and  you'll  go  with  me,  Larry,"  said  Bob. 
"She's  a  bully  teacher,  I  tellyou.  She's  the  bulliest  teacher  I 
ever  see." 


238  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  I  don't  care,"  Larry  persisted,  "  I  think  she  was  real  mean 
to  sock  it  to  ye  that  way." 

"  You  must  be  a  fool,"  Bob  responded.  "She  couldn't  have 
did  it  in  any  other  way.  Don't  you  see?  She  had  to  dip  into 
the  fur  to  do  it.  She  owed  me  a  lickin',  you  know.  Oh  ! 
wa'n't  them  side-winders!"  and  Bob  subsided  into  a  period  of 
delighted  contemplation  upon  the  punishment  he  had  received, 
as  if  it  had  been  bestowed  upon  an  enemy. 

Larry  could  not  understand  it,  and  wisely  held  his  tongue. 
By  the  time  Bob  reached  home,  the  marks  upon  his  face  had 
become  toned  down  to  the  appearance  of  a  healthy  response 
to  the  influences  of  the  keen  morning  air ;  but  there  was  a 
streaky  appearance  upon  his  cheeks  which  aroused  the  suspi- 
cions of  his  parents,  though  they  instituted  no  uncomfortable 
inquiries. 

But  the  influence  of  the  Sunday-school  was  evident  in  his 
subsequent  conduct  that  day.  Such  a  filially  obedient  and 
brotherly  little  chap  as  he  was  during  that  blessed  Sunday  after- 
noon was  not  to  be  found  otherwhere  in  all  New  York.  He 
was  helpful  about  the  fuel,  helpful  in  amusing  the  baby,  and 
sweet-tempered  about  everything.  He  sang  over  his  Sunday- 
school  songs,  and  his  peaceful  happiness  fairly  welled  up  within 
him,  and  overflowed  upon  the  family  group.  Talking  Tim 
looked  on  in  wonder.  Such  a  sudden  transformation  he  had 
never  witnessed,  but  he  knew  the  boy  too  well  to  utter  the  sur- 
prise which  he  felt. 

All  the  following  day,  Miss  Coates  remained  at  home,  dread- 
ing a  call  from  the  enraged  parent ;  but  the  day  passed  away, 
and  the  ring  at  her  door-bell  which  was  to  sound  the  knell  of 
her  peace,  was  not  heard. 

At  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  however,  there  came 
a  sudden  jerk  of  the  bell.  The  servant  went  to  the  door,  and 
received  from  the  hand  of  a  boy  who  was  very  much  muffled 
up,  a  package  for  Miss  Coates,  which  was  no  sooner  delivered 
than  its  bearer  ran  down  the  steps  and  disappeared. 

Miss  Coates,  on  opening  the  package,  found  it  to  be  a  little 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  239 

nosegay,  with  a  note  attached  to  it.     She  opened  the  note  and 
read  • — 

"  DEAR  Miss  KOTES  :  Larry  and  me  is  komen  agin,  with  a  lot 
ov  fellers.  Dad  thinks  you  have  wunderfull  influance  on  yure 
skollers.  This  bokay  cost  five  cents.  So  no  more  at  present 
fron«  » ure  affeckshant  skoller  BOB  SPENCER  *' 

Miss  Coates's  bread,  which  she  had  sown  so  vigorously  upon 
the  waters,  had  thus  returned  to  her  within  thirty-six  hours. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

WHICH   CONTAINS   THE   HISTORY  OF   A  DAY'S   BUSINESS  IH 

BREAKING   UP   AND   PUTTING  TOGETHER  THE 

GROUP   OF  THE   LAOCOON. 

WHEN  Nicholas  left  the  "  Crown  and  Crust,"  on  the  evening 
of  his  encounter  with  the  three  rogues,  he  had  only  the  shadow 
of  an  idea  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  them,  on  the  fulfil- 
ment of  their  promise  to  call  upon  him  the  following  morning. 
Of  one  thing  he  was  sure :  he  cherished  no  resentments  against 
them.  He  desired  to  do  them  good.  How  to  accomplish  his 
purpose  was  the  question  which  the  reflections  and  inventions 
of  the  night  were,  in  some  imperfect  or  tentative  way,  to  answer. 
He  had  the  men  at  an  advantage,  which  he  did  not  intend,  in 
any  way,  to  relinquish.  He  saw  that  they  were  to  be  treated 
with  a  firm  hand.  He  supposed  that  they  would  endeavor  to 
overreach  him,  and  he  had  never  felt  himself  so  stimulated  and 
excited  as  during  the  night  which  preceded  their  appointed 
visit.  Indeed,  he  slept  but  little  ;  but  before  morning  he  had 
reasoned  the  matter  out  to  his  own  satisfaction,  and  evolved  a 
scheme,  in  the  success  of  which  he  felt  a  measurable  degree  of 
confidence. 

He  informed  Pont,  at  an  early  hour,  of  the  visit  he  expected, 
and  told  him  that  he  should  be  at  home  to  no  one  until  these 
men  had  come  and  gone. 

At  precisely  ten  o'clock,  according  to  the  agreement,  the 
men  presented  themselves  together.  There  was  a  guilty, 
sheepish  look  upon  their  faces,  most  unlike  that  which  they 
wore  upon  the  previous  day.  Then  they  were  all  in  earnest,  in 
their  propagation  of  lies  for  the  securing  of  a  gift.  This  morn- 
ing they  had  no  story  to  tell,  no  part  to  play — none,  at  least, 
that  had  been  determined  upon  and  rehearsed.  They  had 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  241 

been  detected  as  rogues  ;  they  were  under  the  menace  of  pro- 
secution as  such  ;  and  Nicholas  had  surprised  them  so  much  by 
his  boldness  and  promptness  in  getting  back  his  money  that,  to 
use  his  own  familiar  phrase,  they  "  didn't  know  what  he  was 
going  to  do."  As  Nicholas  heard  them  ascending  the  stairs  to 
his  room,  he  went  to  his  door  and  opened  it,  before  Pont  had 
had  the  opportunity  to  knock. 

They  entered  in  the  same  order  as  on  the  previous  day. 
First,  Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish  received  a  cordial  greeting,  and 
then  Mr.  Yankton,  and  then  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn.  Pont  was 
indulging  in  a  broad  grin,  and  evidently  desired  to  make  an 
excuse  for  lingering  in  the  room.  He  advanced  to  the  fire  to 
give  it  a  little  attention,  but  a  motion  of  his  master  sent  him 
out,  and  Nicholas  was  left  alone  with  his  "  raw  material." 

"Draw  up  to  the  fire,  gentlemen,  and  make  yourselves 
thoroughly  comfortable,"  said  Nicholas.  "It  is  very  kind  of 
you  all  to  be  here  so  punctually." 

"  Oh  !  don't  mention  it,"  responded  Mr.  Cavendish.  "  We 
are  only  too  glad  to  be  in  such  pleasant  quarters." 

"  Shall  I  call  you  all  by  the  names  you  gave  me  yesterday  ?  " 
inquired  Nicholas. 

"  You  may  as  well  do  so,"  replied  Mr.  Cavendish,  who 
assumed  the  leadership,  by  virtue  of  his  superior  craft  and 
education. 

"Very  well,  gentlemen  j  are  you  interested  in  art?  I  have 
some  engravings  in  this  volume.  Suppose  you  look  it  over  be- 
tween you." 

Mr.  Yankton  sat  in  the  middle,  and  took  the  volume  in  his 
lap. 

It  was  a  volume  of  engravings,  representing  the  classical 
luins  and  art-treasures  of  Rome.  Nicholas  sat  near  them,  and 
for  more  than  half  an  hour,  as  the  leaves  were  slowly  turned, 
explained  the  pictures  to  them  as  well  as  he  could.  Not  un- 
frequently,  Mr.  Cavendish  came  to  his  aid,  or  offered  sugges- 
tions which  betrayed  his  early  culture,  astonishing  Nicholas  and 
his  companions  as  well,  and  acquiring  in  the  process  a  degree 


M*  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

of  self-respect  and  personal  pride,  which  wrought  a  curious 
transformation  in  him. 

"  I  have  some  pictures  on  the  walls,"  said  Nicholas,  "  thai 
you  may  be  interested  in  ; "  and  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  led 
the  way  to  a  sunny  landscape,  where  a  number  of  children  were 
playing  under  a  tree.  Beyond  the  tree  a  placid  river  threaded 
a  broad  meadow,  and  beyond  the  meadow  rose  green  hills,  and 
beyond  the  hills,  defining  the  sky-line,  a  mountain  swelled, 
wrapped  in  its  morning  atmosphere.  The  picture  was  full  of 
the  morning — the  morning  light,  the  morning  of  the  year,  the 
morning  of  life.  The  dew  was  on  the  grass,  a  wreath  of  mist 
shone  white  on  the  mountain-side,  and  freshness  was  everywhere, 
as  if  there  had  been  a  shower  on  the  previous  day,  and  nature 
and  life  were  celebrating  the  event  with  new  blood  in  their 
veins.  The  men  looked  at  it  a  long  time.  What  thoughts  were 
in  their  hearts  Nicholas  did  not  know.  He  only  knew  that  the 
picture  was  its  own  interpreter,  and  that  no  weary  man,  in  whom 
the  slightest  degree  of  sensibility  remained,  could  look  upon  it 
without  sympathetic  or  pathetic  pleasure. 

The  men  lingered  as  if  spell-bound.  Not  a  word  was 
said.  The  beautiful  room  was  so  still  that  the  little  clock 
upon  the  mantletree  could  be  heard  telling  the  tale  of  the  pass- 
ing time. 

Then  they  passed  on,  and  the  next  object  to  which  Nicholas 
called  their  attention  was  a  small  group  of  the  Laocoon,  in  plaster. 
The  men  paused  before  it.  The  transition  was  abrupt,  and  it  told 
upon  them.  There  were  the  three  helpless  victims,  writhing  in 
the  coils  of  the  relentless  serpents,  and  there  stood  the  three  men. 
They  were  quick-witted,  and  appreciated  at  once  the  lesson  they 
had  received.  They  knew  and  felt  that  the  vices  and  the  cir- 
cumstances which  enchained  them  were  typified  before  them. 
They  could  not  resent  the  rebuke  or  the  lesson,  because  they 
were  treated  by  a  gentleman  like  gentlemen ;  and  they  could 
not  know  whether  there  had  been  design  in  it.  They  looked 
uneasily  in  each  other's  faces,  and  then  back  upon  the  group,  in 
a  strange  and  painful  fascination. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  243 

"How  do  you  like  that?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"Well,  it  doesn't  strike  me  as  being  very  lively,"  said  Mr. 
Cavendish. 

"It  strikes  me  as  devilish  unpleasant,"  said  Mr.  Yankton. 

"  Rather  suggestive,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn. 

"  It  doesn't  look  as  if  those  fellows  were  going  to  get  out  of  it 
very  easily  or  very  soon,"  Nicholas  remarked. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Cavendish  ;  "  the  devil  is  too  much  for  any 
man,  or  any  three  men,  when  he  once  gets  a  good  hold  and  gets 
the  advantage." 

In  an  instant,  Nicholas  advanced  to  the  bracket  upon  which 
the  group  rested,  raised  his  hand  and  hurled  the  Laocobn  to  the 
floor.  It  came  down  with  a  tremendous  crash,  and  lay  scattered 
over  the  carpet  in  a  thousand  fragments.  The  men  were  thor- 
oughly startled  and  surprised.  Pont  came  rushing  upstairs,  and 
without  waiting  to  knock,  entered  the  room,  under  the  impres 
sion  that  his  master  was  suffering  violence. 

"Pont,"  said  Nicholas  quietly,  "  bring  a  basket  and  a  broom, 
and  carry  off  these  pieces." 

Font's  eyes  were  very  wide  open,  and  he  hesitated. 

"  Be  quick  about  it,  Pont." 

The  negro  saw  that  there  was  to  be  no  explanation,  and 
went  off  mystified,  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  task. 

"  Let's  sit  down  again,"  said  Nicholas,  "until  we  get  rid  of 
this  rubbish." 

When  Pont  had  carefully  performed  his  task  and  left  the 
room,  Nicholas  said : 

"  I'm  glad  that  thing  is  out  of  the  way.  It  has  always  been 
a  pain  to  me,  and  I  really  do  not  know  why  I  have  tolerated  it 
so  long.  It  embodies  a  lie  to  every  ordinary  imagination. 
There  is  no  evil  bond  so  strong  that  a  man  cannot  break  it. 
All  it  needs  is  a  resolute  hand.  You  can  never  put  the  serpents 
together  again  that  I  have  just  crushed." 

"  Or  the  men,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish. 

"  I  don't  wish  to.  Their  contortions  would  have  no  mean- 
ing without  the  monster  which  they  resist.  There,  let  me  place 


244  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

my  beautiful  Apollo  on  that  bracket — free,  beautiful,  divine  i 
What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

There  was  no  more  desire  that  morning  to  study  the  fine 
arts.  The  men  found  themselves  under  a  strange  influence. 
They  had,  first  and  last,  entered  a  great  many  rooms  of  luxury 
and  refinement  on  their  swindling  errands,  but  their  minds  had 
been  in  no  mood  for  receiving  good  impressions.  They  had, 
this  morning,  been  in  this  room  so  long — they  had  been  in  a 
mental  attitude  to  receive  and  had  received  so  many  new  im- 
pressions— that  they  had  almost  forgotten  who  and  what  they 
were.  They  had  acted  the  leading  parts  in  a  great  many  low 
and  vicious  comedies.  Here  they  had  been  spectators  in  a 
drama  of  a  different  sort.  They  had  been  led  by  a  beautiful 
path  up  to  a  realization  of  their  own  bondage  and  degradation, 
and,  before  their  eyes,  there  had  been  typified  the  overthrow  of 
their  enthralling  vices  and  their  own  resurrection  from  them. 

"Fellows,"  said  Nicholas,  "tell  me  about  yourselves.  I'm 
sure  you  never  came  to  this  without  going  through  great  temp 
tations  and  great  struggles." 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell.  People  call  us  '  dead-beats,'  * 
said  Mr.  Cavendish,  who  always  spoke  for  himself  and  his 
friends,  "  and  that's  just  what  we  are.  We  have  had  our  trial 
with  the  world,  and  we  have  all  been  dead  beaten.  The  road 
into  our  life  is  straight  and  easy.  There  isn't  one  of  us  who 
didn't  begin  to  lie  when  he  came  into  pecuniary  trouble.  Just 
as  soon  as  a  man  begins  to  lie  to  excuse  himself  for  not  paying 
a  debt,  or  stretches  the  truth  a  little  in  order  to  borrow  money, 
he's  on  the  direct  road  to  our  kind  of  life.  He  goes  on  lying 
more  and  more,  as  his  troubles  increase,  and,  before  he  knows 
it,  lying  becomes  the  business  of  his  life.  There  are  plenty  of 
men  in  New  York  now,  who  are  shinning  around  from  day  to 
day  to  keep  their  heads  above  water,  and  who  will  be  among 
us,  and  as  low  as  we  are,  in  two  years." 

"  Doesn't  it  trouble  your  conscience  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"Not  a  bit,"  responded  Mr.  Cavendish;  and  the  otheii 
laughed  in  approval. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  245 

"And  ch  you  never  have  a  desire  to  get  out  of  this  kind  of 
life?" 

"Well,  no.  It's  rather  exciting.  We  were  having  a  pretty 
good  time  last  night,  when  you  broke  in  on  us." 

"And  you  were  not  ashamed  when  I  showed  myself  to 
you?" 

"  I  can't  exactly  say  that,"  said  Cavendish. 

"  Come,  now,  tell  me  honestly :  would  you  not  be  glad  to 
enter  again  upon  honest  and  respectable  life  if  I  will  help  you 
to  a  chance  ?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you,  now  ?  What  do  you  care 
about  us  ?  "  inquired  Cavendish. 

Nicholas  was  getting  towards  the  practical  results  of.  his  ex- 
periment, and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  answered  : 

"  Life  seems  so  beautiful  a  thing  to  me  that  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  a  man  throw  it  away.  Manhood  is  something  so  noble  and 
grand  that  its  ruin  seems  to  me  to  be  the  most  terrible  thing  in 
the  world.  Here  you  are — three  ruined  men — preying  upon  so- 
ciety like  three  wolves — your  manhood  gone,  your  mothers  and 
sisters  forgotten,  your  wives  and  children,  if  you  ever  had  any, 
either  killed  by  your  disgrace,  or  living  in  despair,  your  tongues 
trained  to  daily  lying,  your  past  a  failure,  your  future  hopeless, 
and  yet,  when  I  offer  to  help  you  out  of  it,  you  ask  me  what  it 
matters  to  me  ?  If  I  did  not  care  about  it,  I  should  be  a  brute. 
If  I  did  not  care  about  it,  I  should  feel  that  I  ought  to  get  down 
upon  my  knees,  even  to  you,  and  ask  your  pardon.  God  only 
knows  how  much  I  care  about  it." 

Nicholas  said  this  with  the  most  earnest  feeling,  looking  into 
the  faces  of  the  men  who  sat  before  him  silent,  spiritless  and 
unresponsive. 

"  It's  too  late,"  said  Cavendish. 

"It's  not  too  late.  It  shall  not  be  too  late.  You  will  accept 
the  proposition  I  make  to  you,  or  you  will  be  in  the  lock-up 
before  night.  If  you  will  not  reform,  it  will  be  my  duty  to  pro- 
tect society  from  you.  I  do  not  like  the  alternative  any  better 
*han  you  d->.  To  me,  you  are  all  men  now — gentlemen,  if  you 


i46  NICHOLAS  MI17TURN. 

please.  For  this  morning,  you  have  laid  aside  your  unworthj 
characters,  and  we  are  here  together  to  see  what  we  can  do  for 
ourselves.  I  know  I  can  help  you,  and  I  know  you  can  help 
me,  if  you  will.  There  is  no  man — there  are  no  three  men — in 
the  world,  who  can  do  for  me  a  favor  so  great  as  you  have  it  in 
your  power  to  do  for  me  this  morning.  Why,  if  I  never  did  any- 
thing else  in  all  my  life,  it  would  make  me  glad  and  rich  to  help 
you  back  to  life  and  self-respect." 

Nicholas  saw  that  the  man  who  had  assumed  the  relation  of 
distant  cousin  was  moved.  Even  the  rheumatic  man  was  pro- 
foundly sober,  but  both  were  under  the  restraint  of  the  superior 
brain  which  the  missionary  possessed.  The  latter  had  the  dig- 
nity, in  his  own  domain,  of  being  a  leader,  and  Nicholas  was 
inviting  him  to  a  life  of  subordination.  It  was  painful  to  see 
how  weakly  the  wills  of  all  of  them  worked  toward  a  determina- 
tion upon  anything  that  was  good. 

"Besides,"  Nicholas  went  on,  after  observing  them  a  mo- 
ment, "  I  want  you  to  help  me.  You  know  so  much  more 
than  I  do  about  this  city  life  and  its  temptations  and  miseries 
that  I  want  you  to  help  me — to  be  my  counselors,  my  as- 
sistants." 

The  thought  that  they  could  be  of  use  to  anybody — that  they 
could  be  accounted  of  importance  in  any  scheme  of  good — that 
Instead  of  being  beneficiaries  they  could  become  benefactors — 
was  a  new  and  fruitful  one.  Mr.  Cavendish  was  quick  to  see 
the  drift  of  impression  in  the  minds  of  his  companions,  and 
was  conscious  of  certain  ambitions  that  were  awakening  within 
himself.  Light  began  to  dawn  in  the  horizon  of  them  all,  but 
still  the  enthusiastic  missionary  to  the  Flat-Heads  was  inclined 
to  question  and  delay. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Cavendish,  "  that  you  expect  to  make 
praying  sneaks  of  us  all, — that  we  are  to  be  pawed  over,  and 
palavered  with,  and  preached  to." 

"  [  don't  know  that  I  am  acquainted  with  any  praying 
sneaks,  as  you  call  them,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  but  if  there  is  any 
sneak  that  is  meaner  or  worse  than  one  who  sneaks  into  a  be- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  247 

nevolent  man's  house  with  a  lie  in  his  throat  with  which  to 
steal  his  money,  I  should  like  to  see  him.  He  must  be  a 
curiosity." 

"Good!"  said  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn,  laughing  suddenly; 
and  he  and  Mr.  Yankton  clapped  their  hands. 

Mr.  Cavendish  felt  that  his  scepter  was  departing,  but  he 
could  not  give  it  up  yet. 

"  But  that's  what  they  do,"  he  said.  "  They  all  want  us  to 
become  pious,  you  know.  They  want  us  to  embrace  religion, 
if  anybody  knows  what  that  is." 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,"  said  Nicholas,  "that  religion  is  not  for 
such  fellows  as  you  are.  I  think  that  many  well-meaning  per- 
sons make  a  great  mistake  in  this  matter.  I  should  just  as 
soon  think  of  presenting  religion  to  a  pig  as  to  a  confirmed 
dead-beat,  or  willing  pauper.  A  person  who  has  not  will  and 
shame  enough  to  take  the  single  step  that  places  him  back 
within  his  manhood,  will  never  take  the  two  steps  that  will  lift 
him  into  Christianity.  I  am  not  a  preacher,  but,  if  I  were,  I 
should  never  think  of  preaching  to  you,  until  you  had  become 
something  different  from  what  you  are  now.  Christianity  was 
made  for  men,  and  not  for  those  who  have  ceased  to  be  men. 
There  is  not  a  Christian  motive  that  can  touch  one  who  has 
sunk  below  his  own  respect.  I  was  once  in  very  deep  water 
myself,  and  I  was  obliged  to  come  up,  and  work  to  get  up  and 
stay  up,  before  the  rescuers  could  reach  me  and  save  me." 

The  men  looked  in  each  other's  faces. 

"  What  do  you  say,  boys  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Cavendish. 

"  I'm  going  to  try  it,"  said  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn,  "  whether 
the  rest  do  or  not." 

"  I,  too,"  said  Mr.  Yankton. 

"  Very  well,  I'm  with  you,"  said  Cavendish. 

Nicholas  was  overjoyed.  He  seized  the  hand  of  the  first 
speaker,  and  said  impressively. 

"  You  are  quite  welcome  to  the  name  of  my  father  and  of 
my  mother.  Keep  them  both.  They  will  help  to  shut  you  off 
from  your  old  associations,  and  hold  you  to  your  new." 


248  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Then  he  shook  the  other  men  by  the  hand,  and  told  them 
that  they  had  given  him  one  of  the  happiest  moments  of  his 
life. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  with  us  ?  "  said  Caven 
dish,  who  refused  to  relinquish  his  lead. 

"  Don't  put  it  in  that  way,"  responded  Nicholas.  "  What 
do  we  propose  to  do  with  ourselves,  for  you  must  remember 
that  we  are  all  engaged  in  one  enterprise.  I  am  to  help  you, 
and  you  are  to  help  me.  I  propose  lunch." 

"  I  presume  we  are  all  agreeable,"  said  Cavendish,  laughing. 

Nicholas  touched  a  bell,  to  which  Pont  promptly  responded. 

"Bring  up  lunch  for  four,"  said  Nicholas,  as  the  negro  ap- 
peared. 

Then  they  broke  bread  together,  and  their  viands  were 
served  with  courteous  punctilio.  The  men  were  awkward  at 
first,  but  their  embarrassment  soon  passed  away,  and  they  en- 
tered into  a  lively  conversation,  which  made  the  meal  thor- 
oughly enjoyable. 

"  Now,"  said  Nicholas,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  "  you  are 
strong  enough  to  promise  me  a  few  things  which  will  be  neces- 
sary to  your  success.  In  the  first  place,  you  must  promise  me 
never  to  return  to  your  old  haunts,  never  to  drink  a  glass  of 
liquor  unless  it  is  prescribed  for  you  by  a  physician,  always  to 
stick  together  and  be  society  for  one  another,  and  always  to 
come  to  me  if  you  are  in  trouble." 

"That's  pretty  tough,"  said  Cavendish. 

"  Do  you  falter  ?  " 

"  A  man  doesn't  like  to  lose  his  liberty,  you  know.' 

"  Liberty  to  lose  your  place  !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas.  "  Lib- 
erty to  go  into  dirty  society  when  you  can  have  good  !  What 
can  you  mean  ?  " 

The  other  men  did  not  demur,  and  Nicholas  knew  that  he 
had  not  yet  touched  the  right  spring  in  Cavendish,  but  he  deter- 
mined to  study  him  thoroughly,  and  to  find  it  at  any  cost. 

"  Well,"  said  Cavendish,  with  a  sigh,  "  let's  come  back  tc 
the  question  :  What  do  you  propose  to  do  with  us  ?  ' 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  24$ 

"  I  propose  to  set  you  to  work  for  wages,  and  to  keep  you 
at  it  every  day.  I  propose  to  get  you  a  comfortable  boarding- 
house,  where  you  can  all  live  together.  I  propose  to  interest 
you,  if  I  can,  in  an  enterprise  in  which  I  have  great  faith — the 
best  enterprise,  I  am  sure,  which  it  is  possible  for  a  man  like 
me  to  undertake.  I  am  going  to  try  to  get  hold  of  a  great 
many  such  fellows  as  you  are ;  and  as  you  know  all  about  them, 
you  can  be  of  much  assistance  to  me.  You,  Cavendish,  must 
be  my  right-hand  man  unless  it  should  happen  that  I  am  com- 
pelled to  become  yours." 

Nicholas  had  found  the  spring  without  looking  far.  A  prospect 
of  leadership  and  influence  lighted  the  eye  of  the  ex-missionary 
to  the  Flat-Heads. 

"  Now,"  said  Nicholas,  putting  on  his  overcoat  and  hat, 
"  lef  s  go  and  find  a  boarding-place.  I  have  a  dozen  advertise- 
ments in  my  pocket,  clipped  out  of  the  papers  while  I  was 
waiting  for  you  this  morning." 

As  they  passed  out  of  the  hall  and  struck  the  sidewalk,  Mr. 
Cavendish  coupled  himself  with  Nicholas,  and  the  men  walked 
down  the  street  together.  Nicholas  was  conscious  that  he  was 
but  little  known,  and  that  few,  if  any,  would  notice  his  strange 
companionship.  Besides,  he  was  deeply  interested,  and  he  did 
not  care. 

They  went  to  one  house  after  another,  and  finally  decided 
upon  a  large,  double-bedded  room,  in  a  cheap  part  of  the  city. 
Nicholas,  after  the  decision  was  made,  had  a  long  conference 
with  the  landlady,  which  ended  in  his  becoming  personally 
responsible  for  the  board  of  the  three  men  for  a  month,  and  an 
agreement,  on  her  part,  -that  she  would  report  to  him  any 
irregularities  of  her  new  boarders,  should  any  occur. 

During  this  interview  he  had  left  the  three  men  in  their  room. 
On  returning,  he  found  them  very  comfortable,  and  cheerfully 
chaffing  each  other. 

"  You  two  fellows,"  said  Nicholas,  speaking  to  Lansing  Min- 
turn  and  Yankton,  "  are  to  stay  here,  while  Cavendish  and  I  go 
out.  You  have  had  enough  to  eat,  you  are  comfortable,  you 
n* 


as«  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

have  no  temptation  to  go  away.  We  are  going  out  to  see  what 
we  can  do  for  you." 

Nicholas  and  Cavendish  had  hardly  reached  the  corner  of 
the  street,  when  the  two  men,  thus  left  free  from  care,  and  in 
pleasant  quarters,  lay  down  upon  their  beds  and  went  soundly 
to  sleep.  They  had  been  up  more  than  half  of  the  previous 
night,  and  the  beds  were  the  most  inviting  they  had  seen  for 
years.  No  lock  and  key  was  needed  for  them. 

Nicholas  and  his  companion  made  directly  for  Glezen's  office. 
They  found  him,  as  he  told  them,  "  up  to  his  eyes  "  in  work, 
though  he  gave  Nicholas  a  cordial  greeting,  and  received  his 
companion  politely.  Glezen  knew,  with  the  quick  insight  that 
comes  to  an  observant  man  in  city  life,  that  Cavendish  had 
had  "a  history."  He  knew  that  he  was  not  an  ordinary  man, 
in  ordinary  circumstances.  His  seedy  clothes,  his  sharpened 
countenance,  his  quick  eyes,  betrayed  the  adventurer  who  lived 
upon  his  wits.  "  Glezen,"  said  Nicholas,  "I  have  brought  this 
man  here,  looking  for  employment,  because  I  have  become 
very  much  interested  in  him." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"Yes — the  worst  of  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Glezen,  "  I  want  a  clerk.  My  work  is  getting 
too  heavy  for  me,  but  I  must  have  a  capable  and  a  faithful  one. 
How  long  have  you  known  him  ?  " 

"  Since  yesterday  morning." 

Glezen  looked  into  the  face  of  the  applicant  with  an  amused 
smile,  which  Cavendish  not  only  understood  but  responded  to, 
for  reasons  which  even  Glezen  did  not  apprehend. 

Mr.  Cavendish  cleared  his  throat,  and  then,  with  some  hesi- 
tation, turned  to  Nicholas,  and  said  :  "  You  have  no  idea  of 
deceiving  your  friend.  You  will  tell  him  all  about  me,  some 
time,  and  if  anybody  is  to  do  it,  I  had  better  do  it  myself. 
Mr.  Minturn" — turning  to  Glezen — "has  been  kind  enough  to 
bring  me  here,  after  I  have  abused  his  confidence,  with  the 
hope  of  giving  me  the  chance  for  an  honorable  life,  which  I  had 
supposed  was  forever  gone.  I  am  what  they  call  a  dead-beat. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  251 

I  don't  know  that  I  am  very  much  ashamed  of  it.  The  world 
has  used  me  roughly,  and  I  have  had  a  hard  time,  but  I  am 
willing  to  try  again.  This  gentleman  is  the  first  who  has  given 
me  a  good  word,  or  exercised  a  good  intention  toward  me,  for 
years.  I  am  not  very  hopeful  of  myself,  but  I  am  willing  to  try 
to  please  him.  In  fact,  I  have  promised  to  do  so.  And  now 
if  you  will  give  me  employment,  you  will  find  that  I  am  capable. 
So  long  as  I  stay,  I  shall  serve  you  faithfully.  You  may  come 
here  some  morning  and  find  that  I  am  gone,  but  you'll  miss 
nothing  but  me.  That's  all,  and  I  couldn't  speak  to  you  a 
more  honest  word  if  I  were  dying,  so  help  me  God ! " 

"  I  like  that  pretty  well,"  said  Glezen.  "  I  believe  you'll  do 
what  you  say,  too." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Cavendish,  "and  you'll  excuse  me  if  I 
say  that  I  think  we  shall  get  along  very  well  together." 

"Thank  you,"  responded  Glezen,  "and  now  let's  see  what 
you  can  do  with  a  pen." 

Cavendish  drew  up  to  a  table,  wrote  a  polite  note  to  Glezen, 
and  signed  it. 

Glezen  gave  it  a  glance,  and  said : 

"  That  will  do.     Now  what  wages  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  Nicholas,  "  That  you  had  better  leave  that 
matter  to  Mr.  Glezen.  He  will  deal  fairly  by  you,  I  know." 

"  All  right ! "  said  Cavendish. 

Glezen  comprehended  the  object  that  Nicholas  had  in  view, 
and  said  promptly : 

"  Your  salary  begins  from  this  morning ;  and  here  is  a  docu- 
ment that  I  wish  you  to  copy  before  you  sleep.  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  sit  up  all  night  to  do  it  if  you  do  not." 

Cavendish  took  it  in  his  hand,  but  seemed  troubled,  doubtful 
and  hesitating. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  boys  will  get  tired  of  their  confinement,  and 
leave  their  room,"  Cavendish  replied. 

Nicholas  was  delighted  to  find  him  assuming  a  sense  of  r» 
sponsibility  for  them,  and  said : 


*5*  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"Mr.  Glezen  will  permit  you  to  take  your  work  home,  at 
tea-time,  I  am  sure,  though  I'm  not  afraid  of  theii  leaving 
their  comfortable  quarters  for  the  present.  They  have  no 
money." 

"I  know,"  said  Cavendish,  "but  we  must  keep  them  con- 
tented and  interested." 

Glezen  readily  gave  his  consent  to  the  proposition  of  Nicho- 
las, and  then  Cavendish  sat  down  at  the  desk  prepared  for  him, 
to  begin  his  work. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Nicholas,  rising,  and  addressing  Caven- 
dish, "  do  you  know  whether  that  newly  manufactured  cousin 
of  mine  was  ever  a  civil  engineer,  as  he  pretends  to  have 
been?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  once  his  profession,  and  he  will  do  well  in  a 
subordinate  position." 

"  What  about  Yankton  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  trained  to  anything.  The 
rheumatic  dodge  isn't  high  art,  you  know.  Don't  send  him 
out-of-doors." 

"Very  well,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "you  will  work  here  until  six, 
and  I'll  call  and  go  home  with  you.  I  mean  to  get  some  good 
news  for  your  friends  before  we  see  them  again." 

Then  our  enterprising  young  philanthropist  shook  hands  with 
Glezen  and  his  clerk,  and  went  out.  He  could  think  of  no 
one  so  likely  to  second  his  plans  as  Mr.  Coates.  He  remem- 
bered what  the  old  man  had  said  at  his  dinner-table,  but  that 
did  not  discourage  him.  He  had  learned  that  talk  did  not 
mean  much  on  either  side  of  the  question,  and  that  those  who 
seemed  the  hardest  and  most  prejudiced  were  quite  as  likely 
to  be  helpful  as  those  who  were  more  weakly  and  tendeily 
sympathetic. 

So  he  went  to  the  prosperous  mercantile  establishment  of 
Mr.  Coates.  If  he  had  appreciated  the  fact  that  the  old  man 
could  not  have  denied  anything  to  the  rescuer  of  his  wife 
and  daughter,  he  would  have  hesitated  ;  but  the  thought  that 
he  had  ever  rendered  Mr.  Coates  or  his  family  a  favor  had  not 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  253 

entered  his  mind.  He  was  going  to  ask  for  grace  and  not  foi 
reward. 

Nicholas  entered  the  private  office  of  Mr.  Coates  with  a  good 
deal  of  timidity,  but  he  was  heartily  received  and  put  at  his 
ease. 

Any  one  who  held  an  interview  with  the  old  and  eccentric 
merchant  was  obliged  to  do  the  most  of  the  talking.  His  nature 
seemed  to  be  extractive  and  absorbent.  To  simple-hearted 
Nicholas  these  qualities  were  irresistible,  and,  with  a  few  sug- 
gestions and  questions  here  and  there,  Mr.  Coates  managed  to 
draw  out  from  the  young  man  the  whole  story  of  his  experience 
and  experiments  with  the  rogues  he  had  taken  upon  his  hands. 
The  old  man  carried  a  sober  face  through  it  all,  but  suffered 
from  certain  inward  convulsions  which,  on  rising  to  his  throat, 
in  the  direction  of  laughter,  were  suddenly  shunted  off  into  a 
cough. 

He  had  heard  many  praises  of  Nicholas  from  his  wife  and 
daughter,  as  well  as  from  Glezen,  with  whom  he  had  become 
well  acquainted ;  but  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  en- 
joyed the  privilege  of  a  good  look  into  him.  He  was  pleased 
with  him,  and  more  than  ready  to  serve  him. 

"  D-did  you  ever  sk-in  an  eel  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Never." 

"Sl-ippery,"  said  Mr.  Coates. 

"  You  think  these  are  slippery  fellows,  I  suppose." 

"  H-andle  'em  with  m-mittens.  D-don't  make  too  in-much 
of 'em." 

"My  mittens  are  the  police,"  said  Nicholas.  "They  have 
seen  the  rough  side  of  my  hand,  and  felt  it,  too.  All  that  I 
want  to  have  you  understand  is  that  my  whole  heart  is  in  the 
enterprise  of  saving  these  men.  I  believe  it  can  be  done.  I 
have  the  advantage  of  them,  and  1  propose  to  keep  it.  If  one 
of  them  dares  to  cross  the  line  back  into  his  old  life  and 
associations,  I  shall  put  him  where  he  will  have  an  opportunity 
to  repent  at  leisure." 

"You  w-want  to  have  me  t-take  Y -" 


a$4  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Yankton ;  yes." 

"  I  d-don't  see  how  I  c-can." 

"  I'm  very  sorry.     Have  you  nothing  for  him  to  do  ?  " 

"Y-yes,  I  could  m-make  a  light  p-porter  of  him,  but  I 
c-couldn't  speak  his  n-name  once  a  f-fortnight." 

Nicholas  laughed  heartily  and  responded  : 

"  Then  we  must  get  a  new  name." 

"  C-call  it  T-Twitchell,"  said  Mr.  Coates.  "  He'll  r-recog- 
nize  the  t-translation." 

"  So  you'll  take  Twitchell,  will  you  ?  " 

"Y-yes,  I  g-guess  so.  I  suppose  a  r-rose  by  any  other 
n-name  would  s-mell  a  g-good  deal  sweeter." 

"Oh,  I'll  see  that  he  is  cleanly  dressed,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  W-what  are  you  g-going  to  do  with  the  other  one  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Coates,  who  sat  in  a  revolving  chair,  wheeled  around  to 
his  desk,  and  wrote  in  silence  a  long  note,  which  he  carefully 
folded  and  addressed.  Then  he  turned  and  handing  it  to 
Nicholas,  said : 

"  T-try  that." 

It  was  addressed  to  the  Superintendent  of  Public  Works,  and 
contained  a  statement  of  all  the  facts  relating  to  the  history  and 
position  of  the  man  for  whom  Nicholas  was  seeking  employ- 
ment. It  contained  also  the  request,  as  a  personal  favor  to  the 
writer,  that  the  superintendent  would  do  what  he  could,  consis- 
tently with  the  interests  of  the  public  service,  to  further  the 
bearer's  enterprise. 

Armed  with  this  document,  his  heart  glad  and  expectant,  and 
his  face  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  Nicholas  bade  the  old  mer- 
chant a  good  afternoon,  and  sought  the  office  to  which  the  note 
was  addressed. 

He  found  the  superintendent  very  busy,  with  a  number  of  im- 
patient men  in  the  ante-room  of  his  office,  waiting  for  an  inter- 
view. It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  his  opportunity  came. 
He  presented  his  letter,  which  the  officer  read  with  a  frown, 
Then  the  latter  sent  for  half  a  dozen  men  in  different  parts  of 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  255 

the  building,  and  held  a  consultation  with  them.  The  mat- 
ter looked  very  dubious  to  Nicholas,  and  he  began  to  tremble 
for  the  fate  of  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn. 

However,  after  the  young  man  had  been  sufficiently  im- 
pressed with  the  importance  of  the  matter  which  he  had  pre« 
sented,  and  the  profoundness  of  the  difficulty  which  had  been 
mastered  in  arriving  at  a  decision,  he  was  called  to  the  side  of 
the  superintendent,  and,  in  the  most  friendly  and  confidential 
way,  informed  that  it  was  winter,  that  not  much  was  doing, 
that  the  department  was  overwhelmed  with  applications  for  em- 
ployment, that  there  were  those  among  his  friends  who,  if  they 
should  know  that  he  had  favored  Mr.  Coates  before  them, 
would  make  it  hot  for  him,  that  the  appropriation  was  running 
very  low,  that  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn's  precedents  were  not  such 
as  would  reflect  credit  either  upon  his  family — begging  the 
pardon  of  the  family  as  it  was  represented  by  the  gentleman 
before  him — or  upon  the  department,  that  he  really  had  no 
right  in  his  public  capacity  to  respect  personal  considerations, 
etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

After  he  had  squeezed  all  the  hope  out  of  Nicholas  that  was 
possible,  and  shown  him  the  preposterousness  of  Mr.  Coates' s 
request,  and  placed  the  young  man  in  the  position  of  a  humble 
suitor  for  a  benefaction  of  untold  value,  he  condescended  to  say 
that  it  had  been  decided  that,  as  a  favor  to  an  old  and  highly 
respected  citizen,  whose  political  influence  had  always  been 
upon  the  side  of  economy  and  public  order,  Mr.  Lansing  Min- 
turn should  have  a  chance. 

"  Oh,  I  thank  you  !  I  thank  you  1"  said  Nicholas,  pressing 
his  hand,  with  a  warm  stream  of  feeling  spouting  up  from  his 
heart  like  a  geyser,  and  overflowing  the  rocky  superintendent  at 
his  side. 

"You  appreciate  the  difficulties  of  my  position,"  said  the 
superintendent. 

"  Entirely,  and  it  is  only  too  kind  of  you.  I  can  never  forget 
this  courtesy." 

"  I  can't  ask  that,"  said  the  superintendent,  smiling  in  a  pat- 


256  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

ronizing  way.  "  Remember  it  until  after  election.  That's  all 
I  ask." 

Nicholas  saw  the  point  distinctly,  and  saw  furthermore  that 
he  had  been  a  little  boyish  and  gushing. 

"  Send  your  man  here  in  the  morning,  with  a  letter,"  said  the 
superintendent.  "  Good  evening,  sir  !  " 

The  mind  of  Nicholas  was  too  full  of  his  victories  to  make 
any  analysis  of  the  operation  through  which  he  had  just  passed. 
During  the  long  stay  in  the  superintendent's  office,  the  short  win- 
ter day  had  come  to  an  end,  and  he  saw,  on  issuing  upon  the 
street,  that  the  lamps  were  lighted.  He  returned  to  Glezen's 
office,  where  he  found  both  the  lawyer  and  his  new  clerk  busily 
engaged  at  their  work. 

"  Hurra  ! "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  "  I've  got  work  for  them  all. 
Did  anybody  ever  hear  of  such  luck  ?  " 

Then  he  told  them  briefly  what  he  had  done,  and  how  he  had 
been  able  to  accomplish  his  purpose. 

"  Nicholas,"  said  Glezen,  solemnly,  "  do  you  know  that  you 
are  ripening  for  a  memoir  ?  Don't  die.  I've  always  been  afraid 
of  being  too  good  for  this  world,  and  have  tried  to  keep  just 
wicked  enough  to  live." 

Cavendish,  driving  away  at  his  pen,  with  a  smile  illuminating 
his  pointed  face,  responded  : 

"So  have  I." 

A  laugh  followed,  and  then  Nicholas  told  his  protege  that  he 
would  accompany  him  to  his  boarding-place.  Papers,  pens  and 
ink  were  taken  from  the  office,  and  the  two,  with  a  strange, 
light  feeling  in  their  hearts,  threaded  the  streets  together,  and 
arrived  at  their  destination  just  as  the  two  men  whom  they  had 
left  there  were  yawning  themselves  into  consciousness. 

Nicholas  sat  down  with  them,  and  told  them  the  results  of 
his  afternoon's  labor  on  their  behalf.  When  he  reached  the 
matter  of  Yankton's  change  of  name,  and  the  reasons  which 
had  determined  it,  the  merriment  of  the  party  became  uproari- 
ous. The  whole  affair  was  as  good  as  a  play.  While  they  sat, 
the  tea-bell  rang,  and  Nicholas  rose  to  take  his  leave. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN,  157 

"  Cavendish  will  be  obliged  to  work  this  evening,  and  will  be 
fully  employed,"  he  said,  addressing  the  other  two  men.  "  He 
will  need  to  get  rid  of  you,  and  I  want  you  to  come  to  my  rooms 
to  obtain  the  letters  you  will  need  to-morrow ;  and,  perhaps,  I 
can  do  something  to  make  you  more  comfortable  and  more 
presentable." 

The  men  promised  to  call,  and  then  Nicholas  went  out,  took 
a  passing  omnibus,  and  rode  home.  Dispatching  his  dinner, 
he  wrote  the  letters  he  had  alluded  to,  and  was  ready  to 
devote  himself  to  his  visitors  when  they  arrived.  The  sheep- 
ish look  of  the  morning  had  passed  from  their  faces,  and, 
relieved  of  the  presence  of  Cavendish,  they  talked  freely  of 
their  histories,  and  spoke  courageously  and  hopefully  of  the 
future.  Nicholas  passed  an  interesting  and  delightful  even- 
ing with  them,  and  before  they  took  their  leave  brought  out  to 
them  some  of  his  half  worn  clothing,  which  he  begged  them  to 
accept. 

"  I  don't  give  you  any  money,"  he  said,  ' '  because  you  don't 
need  any,  and  it  would  be  a  temptation  to  you.  I'll  call  to  see 
you  to-morrow  night." 

They  took  leave  of  their  benefactor  and  helper  with  hearty 
expressions  of  gratitude,  and  pledges  of  good  behavior  in  the  sit 
uations  which  had  been  procured  for  them ;  and  then  Nicholas 
sat  down  and  thought  it  all  over.  He  had  accomplished  the 
largest  day's  work  of  his  life.  He  had  labored  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  best  motives  all  day,  and  had  worked  in  earnest 
He  was  weary  in  body  and  mind,  but  he  had  never  been  more 
thoroughly  happy. 

What  the  result  of  his  efforts  might  be,  he  could  not  foresee, 
but  he  felt  that  if  he  could  save  these  three  men  he  should  not 
live  in  vain.  He  had  only  begun,  however,  and  the  prospect  of 
future  harvests  filled  him  with  enthusiasm.  He  knew  that  foi 
a  long  time  these  men  must  be  kept  under  surveillance.  He 
knew  that  Glezer,  and  Mr.  Coates  would  do  what  they  could  to 
help  him,  and  that  they  would  be  trustworthy  counselors ;  but 
he  saw  that  all  three  men  would  have  to  be  kept  busy— 


253  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

that  their  evenings  would  have  to  be  looked  after.  It  was  for 
this  necessity  that  he  must  wisely  provide,  and  nothing  seemed 
so  promising  to  him  as  in  some  way  to  make  them  responsible 
for  each  other,  and  to  change  their  attitude  from  that  of  bene- 
ficiaries to  benefactors.  If  he  could  interest  them  in  his  schemes, 
and  make  them  helpers  in  the  task  of  reclaiming  others,  he  was 
sure  that  he  could  hold  them  to  their  present  resolutions. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MISS    LARKIN   MAKES    SOME    EXPERIMENTS    VERY   ENCOURAGING 
TO   HERSELF,    BUT   ALARMING   TO   HER    GUARDIAN. 

WHILE  all  these  events  were  in  progress,  others  of  hardly  less 
interest  to  the  reader  occurred  in  Miss  Larkin's  little  parlor. 

Few  are  they  who,  in  the  activities  of  robust  life,  pause  to 
think  of  the  loneliness  of  the  helpless  invalid — of  the  isolated 
bondage  of  weakness.  To  a  young  woman  who  is  cut  off  from  all 
youthful  amusements  and  pursuits,  who  is  restrained  from  love, 
and  who,  within  four  walls,  is  bound  to  her  couch  by  chains 
as  cruel  as  if  they  were  made  of  steel,  whose  hands  are  forbid- 
den any  response  to  the  busy  motions  of  her  mind,  there  come 
hours  when  even  sympathy  wearies  of  its  ministry,  and  merce- 
nary attendance  must  seek  relief  from  its  burdens.  She  must 
be  left  alone,  her  hands  .folded  in  patient  waiting.  Reminis- 
cence, idle  dreaming,  aspiration,  regrets,  tears — these  come  in 
pathetic  routine  to  fill  the  heavy  hours  when  society  departs. 
Great,  silent  heroisms  are  wrought  out  in  intervals  like  these, 
more  wonderful  than  the  common  imagination  can  conceive  ; 
or  great  moral  disasters  are  suffered,  from  which  there  is  no 
recovery. 

In  one  direction  or  the  other — toward  cheerful,  self-forgetful, 
ever-buoyant  fortitude ;  or  toward  fretfulness,  impatience,  dis- 
content and  weak  complaining — the  invalid  always  gravitates. 
Wine,  long  shut  from  the  sunlight,  ripens  into  nectar  or  vine- 
gar. The  alternative  is  mainly  fixed  by  the  amount  of  sunlight 
it  had  the  privilege  of  absorbing  when  it  hung  in  clusters  upon 
the  vine. 

Grace  Larkin  had  had  a  delightful  girlhood.  Before  she  had 
been  set  aside  by  the  hand  of  disease,  and  previous  to  the  be- 


»6o  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

reavements  which  had  placed  her  in  Mr.  Benson's  keeping,  she 
had  absorbed  all  the  sunshine  that  could  come  into  life  through 
health,  a  happy  temperament,  parental  love  and  prosperity. 
So  mvalidism  had  ripened  her  into  a  womanhood  that  was  mar- 
velously  strong  and  sweet.  Like  all  invalids,  she  had  her 
lonely  hours, — hours  that  seemed  like  eternities  while  passing, 
but  no  friend  ever  found  her  in  tears,  or  left  her  without  the 
experience  of  a  pleasant  inspiration.  All  who  came  to  give  the 
comfort  of  sympathetic  companionship,  departed  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  they  had  received  more  than  they  had  bestowed. 
This  was  the  secret  of  her  hold  upon  her  friends.  This  was 
what  made  her  tasteful  little  parlor  a  delightful  resort. 

The  change  in  her  condition,  to  which  her  guardian  once 
alluded  in  his  conversation  with  Nicholas,  was  one  concerning 
which  she  had  held  no  communication  with  him.  He  had  either 
guessed  the  truth,  or  utilized  a  vagrant  impression  in  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  purpose  to  ascertain  the  young  man's  sen- 
timents. 

It  was  true,  however,  that  she  felt  more  hope  concerning  her 
ultimate  recovery,  during  the  months  that  followed  the  disaster 
which  interrupted  her  attempt  to  travel,  than  she  had  ever 
dared  to  indulge  in  before.  The  reaction  which  followed  the 
terrible  shock  had  raised  her.  She  felt  that  she  was  stronger — 
that  the  nerves  and  muscles  which  had  so  long  refused  to  per- 
form their  offices  had  received  new  life. 

Thenceforward  her  lonely  hours  were  far  from  being  the  least 
interesting  that  she  passed.  She  said  nothing  of  her  altered 
feelings  and  her  awakening  hopes,  even  to  Miss  Bruce,  her  com- 
panion ;  but  that  lady  was  more  and  more  at  liberty  to  be  ab- 
sent; and  she  often  found  her  charge,  whom  she  had  left 
reclining,  sitting  upright  upon  her  lounge  when  she  returned, 
and  looking  flushed,  though  not  unhappy.  What  experiments 
had  been  in  progress  during  her  absence,  she  did  not  know, 
but  she  guessed. 

Miss  Larkin  could  not  have  been  a  woman — least  of  alt  the 
woman  that  she  was — if  she  had  failed  to  recognize  the  passion 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  261 

which  Nicholas  felt  for  her.  From  the  first  moment  that  she 
suspected  it,  she  had  been  upon  her  guard.  She  did  not  dare 
to  indulge  herself  in  thoughts  of  him.  She  knew  that  her  con- 
science would  never  permit  her  to  burden  his  life  with  the 
care  of  her  invalidism.  For  any  selfish  satisfaction  or  delight, 
she  would  not  load  him  with  the  reproaches  or  the  pity  of  his 
fiiends.  If  she  could  not  be  a  wife  to  him,  in  all  wifely  minis- 
tries of  care  and  helpfulness,  she  would  live  alone  and  die 
alone,  even  if  she  should  ever  permit  herself,  or  be  compelled, 
to  love  him.  Nicholas  did  not  need  to  be  told  this,  for  he  had 
already  divined  it.  Indeed,  it  was  this  consideration  which 
more  than  once  had  restrained  him  from  laying  his  heart  and 
life  at  her  feet,  and  offering  her  his  hand.  He  knew  that  she 
would  reject  him  if  he  should  ever  be  tempted  by  the  stress  of 
his  affection  to  discover  his  heart  to  her,  and  that  the  event 
would  bring  to  her  and  to  him  an  overwhelming  pain. 

She  ordered  her  thinking  as  well  as  she  could,  but  she  could 
not  entirely  put  him  out  of  it.  Much  as  she  longed  to  mingle 
in  the  busy  scenes  of  life  which  engaged  her  friends,  earnestly 
as  she  desired  recovery  that  she  might  be  an  actor  in  the  benefi- 
cent schemes  which  they  were  pushing  on  every  hand,  Nicholas, 
and  the  possibility  of  life  in  his  companionship,  always  mingled 
with  her  motives  and  her  'hopes.  She  believed  in  him  wholly. 
Her  heart  gave  him  its  supreme  approval.  So,  however  she 
might  disguise  the  fact  to  herself,  she  desired  to  get  well  for 
him, — for  many  other  things  besides,  but  always  for  him. 

One  afternoon,  when  Miss  Bruce  returned  from  a  hurried 
walk,  she  noticed  that  different  objects  about  the  room  had 
been  disturbed.  A  shawl  -had  been  dropped  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  A  rose  had  'been  picked  from  a  pot  in  the  window. 

Miss  Bruce  paused  and  picked  up  the  shawl.  Seeing  the  rose 
at  Miss  Larkin's  throat,  she  said  : 

"  Has  any  one  called  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Has  Mrs.  Benson  been  in?" 

«  No." 


262  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  No  woman — no  child — no  angel?  " 

"  I  have  but  one  angel,  and  she  is  asking  me  question*.  I 
wish  she  were  less  inquisitive,"  answered  Miss  Larkin,  with  a 
merry  laugh. 

Miss  Bruce  regarded  her  a  moment,  then  crossed  the  room, 
knelt  at  the  couch,  put  her  arms  around  the  beloved  invalid's 
neck,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  it  is  too  good  to  believe — too  good  to  believe  !  "  she 
said. 

"It  isn't  much,  my  dear,"  responded  Miss  Larkin,  greatl) 
moved.  "  I  am  very  weak,  and  a  long  way  from  recovery  yet. 
Don't  speak  of  it.  I  don't  wish  to  awaken  hope  in  any  one.  I 
intended  to  hide  my  own  hope  from  you,  and  you  must  not  be- 
tray me." 

"  Oh  !  my  child,  my  child  !  shall  I  ever  see  you  well  again 
— walking  again?"  said  Miss  Bruce,  kissing  her  with  ardent 
affection.  "  Heaven  be  praised  for  the  hope ;  and  heaven 
only  knows  how  often  I  have  prayed  for  it." 

Miss  Larkin  was  very  much  affected  by  this  demonstration 
on  the  part  of  one  who  was  naturally  calm  and  self-contained, 
and  who  had  trained  herself  to  silence. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  wie  see  you  doit?"  inquired  Miss 
Bruce,  rising  to  her  feet  and  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  tired  now.     Let  me  rest  awhile." 

After  the  unwonted  exertion,  she  slept  for  an  hour.  Then 
she  awoke,  and  finding  Miss  Bruce  present,  she  drew  a  chair  to 
her  couch,  and  by  its  aid  rose  to  her  feet,  and  pushing  it  before 
her,  followed  it  totteringly  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  Miss 
Bruce  saw  that  she  faltered  during  the  last  steps,  and  had  time 
only  to  throw  her  arms  around  her,  before  she  sank  so  nearly 
helpless  that  she  was  with  great  difficulty  restored  to  her  couch. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,  that  you  must  not  try  this  again  alone," 
said  Miss  Bruce  tenderly. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall,"  responded  Miss  Larkin  smiling,  but 
panting  and  faint. 

The  attempt  was  a  failure,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  fill  Miss 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  263 

Bruce  with  hope  and  expectation.  There  was  certainly  a 
change.  There  had  been  an  accession  of  new  life  and  strength, 
and  she  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  use  would  divert  to  the 
inactive  limbs  the  vital  energy  and  the  muscular  power  which 
had  been  so  long  withheld. 

For  days  afterward,  however,  she  would  not  permit  her 
charge  to  repeat  the  experiment.  Then,  once  a  day,  and 
always  at  her  side,  she  presided  at  the  trial.  Progress,  if  any 
was  made,  was  slow ;  but  the  patient  met  with  no  drawbacks. 
She  found  her  strength  at  no  time  utterly  failing,  but  was  always 
able  to  get  back  to  her  couch  unaided. 

Of  these  experiments  and  the  hopes  that  were  based  upon 
them,  none  knew  but  Miss  Larkin  and  her  devoted  companion. 
Mr.  Benson  occasionally  looked  in, — always  with  his  hat  and 
cane  in  his  hand, — made  a  kind  inquiry,  and  departed.  From 
the  time  he  had  read  his  ward's  note  requesting  another  private 
interview,  he  had  studiously  avoided  all  reference  to  it,  and  all 
opportunities  for  the  interview  desired.  It  was  his  delight  and 
his  policy  to  come  in  when  others  were  calling.  He  knew  that 
she  would  not  betray  him,  and  that  he  could  play  his  part  of 
affectionate  guardian  under  such  circumstances  to  the  advan- 
tage of  his  reputation.  He  could  enter  the  room,  ready  for  the 
street  and  his  busy  outside  life,  take  her  hand,  inquire  tenderly 
for  her  health,  apologize  for  his  intrusion,  give  a  hearty  word  to 
her  friends,  and  gracefully  retire.  Grace  understood  the  trick, 
and  he  knew  that  she  understood  it.  Once  or  twice  he  had 
been  nearly  caught.  He  had  found  her  friends  retiring  as  he 
entered ;  and  then  he  always  excused  himself  upon  the  ground 
that  he  had  some  business  with  one  of  them.  Then  he  found 
that  it  was  never  safe  to  call  when  only  Miss  Bruce  was  present, 
because  she  always  took  the  opportunity  to  retire  when  he  en- 
tered He  was  quick  to  guess  the  truth,  viz. :  that  the  matter 
was  understood  between  his  ward  and  her  companion,  and  that 
he  was  to  be  entrapped  if  possible.  As  he  had  reasons  for 
avoiding  such  a  catastrophe,  he  avoided  it. 

One  evening,  when  he  had  sat  longer  than  usual  over  his 


264  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

dinner  and  his  evening  paper,  and  Miss  Bruce  and  Mrs.  Ben 
son  were  enjoying  a  quiet  tete-d,-tete  in  the  corner  of  the  dining- 
room,  they  heard  steps  and  the  moving  of  a  chair  above  them. 
Mr.  Benson  raised  his  eyes  and  listened.  Then  he  looked  at 
Miss  Bruce,  and  saw  that  she  was  pale  and  seemed  uneasy. 

"  What  is  that  noise  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Benson. 

Mrs.  Benson  answered  that  she  did  not  know.  She  knew, 
however,  that  the  servants  of  the  house  were  at  their  dinner, 
and  that  no  one  had  called.  Mr.  Benson  knew  this,  too.  Miss 
Bruce  made  no  answer.  She  would  have  flown  up-stairs  in  a 
moment  if  she  had  dared  to  do  so,  but  she  was  afraid  of  arous- 
ing the  suspicions  of  the  family.  Finally,  she  rose  quietly,  and 
saying  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  rejoin  Miss  Larkin,  prepared 
to  leave  the  room.  Before  she  reached  the  door,  there  came  a 
heavy  jar  upon  the  floor  above  them,  and  a  noise  as  of  falling 
furniture,  She  sprang  from  the  room  and  mounted  the  stairs 
in  headlong  haste. 

Mrs.  Benson  suggested  that  it  might  be  robbers,  and  that 
Mr.  Benson  had  better  follow  and  see  what  the  trouble  was. 

He  laid  down  his  paper,  and,  in  a  leisurely  way  sought  Miss 
Larkin's  room.  The  door  was  open,  and  he  found  Miss  Bruce 
engaged  in  the  difficult  attempt  to  help  Miss  Larkin  back  to 
her  couch.  Quietly  entering,  and  motioning  Miss  Bruce  to 
stand  aside,  he  lifted  his  ward  in  his  arms  and  laid  her  upon 
the  kunge. 

Miss  Larkin  was  not  hurt,  and  was  laughing.  The  exceed- 
ing solemnity  of  Mr.  Benson  amused  her. 

"  Shall  I  leave  you,"  he  said,  "  and  have  a  talk  about  this 
indiscretion  at  our  leisure  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  by  no  means,"  she  replied. 

"  You  must  see  that  you  have  been  indiscreet,  my  child,"  he 
said  in  a  tone  of  tender  concern. 

"  Nevertheless,  I'm  not  sorry,"  she  responded,  "  for  it  has 
brought  you  to  me.  Don't  you  see  that  I  write  you  a  note, 
and  you  will  not  come,  and  then  my  chair  slips  away  and  falls 
down  with  me,  and  that  brings  you  ?  " 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  265 

rt  Don't  trifle,  my  dear.     It  is  a  serious  matter." 
*  It  is  not  half  so  serious  to  me  as  the  fact  that  I  can  never 
»ee  you,"  said  Miss  Larkin.     Mr.  Benson  looked  around,  and 
learned  that  Miss  Bruce  had  silently  left  the  room.     Then  he 
impulsively  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Don't  go,"  said  Miss  Larkin.  "Wait  until  Miss  Bruce 
comes  back.  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  He  had  run  into  the  trap,  and 
insuperable  considerations  had  closed  it  upon  him.  How  he 
was  to  manage  to  get  out  of  it  without  being  hurt,  he  did  not 
know ;  but  the  first  expedient  was  one  toward  which  he  was 
directed  by  the  habits  of  his  life. 

"  My  dear  Grace,"  he  said,  "  I  had  supposed  that  you  were 
reconciled  to  your  lot, — that  you  had  humbly  made  up  your 
mind  to  the  assignments  of  Providence.  Afflictions  do  aot 
rise  from  the  ground.  They  descend  from  above.  The  discon- 
tent which  you  manifest — this  quarrel  which  you  seem  disposed 
to  enter  upon  with  the  power  which  has  prostrated  you — disap- 
points me." 

Miss  Larkin  looked  with  her  large  eyes  into  his,  as  if  she 
were  wondering  how  such  a  man  could  say  such  words,  and  yet, 
to  all  appearance,  believe  himself  to  be  sincere. 

"  Disappoints  you  ?  "  she  said.  "  We  are  often  disappointed 
in  one  another." 

Mr.  Benson  colored.  He  did  not  dare  to  push  his  repri- 
mand any  further  in  that  direction. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  engaged  in  experiments  like 
this  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  For  several  weeks." 

"  Without  the  advice  of  a  physician  ? 

"Yes." 

"  Has  Miss  Bruce  known  of  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  has  assisted  me  in  them." 

"  Then  she  is  an  imprudent  woman,  and  quite  unworthy  of 
the  charge  I  have  committed  to  her.  I  think  it  time  that  you 
have  a  more  discreet  and  conscientious  person  in  her  place." 

13 


266  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  So  long  as  I  am  more  than  satisfied  with  Miss  Bruce,  I  do 
not  see  why  I  should  part  with  her,"  Miss  Larkin  responded. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  quickly,  "I  have  a  duty 
upon  my  hands,  and  I  must  discharge  it.  It  is  my  duty  to 
place  with  you  one  who  will  counsel  and  keep  you  safely.  1 
should  •  forever  blame  myself  if  disaster  should  come  to  you 
through  my  neglect." 

Again  the  large  eyes  were  turned  upon  him  in  wonder.  He 
saw  straight  through  them  into  the  memory  of  his  own  cowardl} 
surrender  of  her  life.  He  could  not  bear  the  look,  and  turned 
away  from  it 

"  I  release  you  from  all  responsibility  for  me,"  she  said. 

"  You  release  me  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Can  you  forget,  Mr.  Benson,  that  I  have  arrived  at  the  age 
at  which  I  become  responsible  for  myself?  This  is  what  I 
have  been  wanting  to  tell  you.  Miss  Bruce  will  stay  with  me, 
because  I  wish  her  to  stay.  I  shall  persist  in  my  experiments 
toward  getting  back  into  my  life,  because  I  am  responsible  for 
them.  I  am  not  discontented.  I  have  never  complained,  but 
I  am  hopeful.  I  expect  to  get  well,  and  after  all  these  years 
of  care  I  feel  as  if  you  ought  to  be  glad,  and  to  load  me  with 
congratulations.' ' 

Mr.  Benson  was  thinking.  There  was  no  smile  upon  his 
face.  She  could  not  read  his  thoughts,  but  she  knew  that  she 
had  brought  him  no  sense  of  relief,  and  that  there  were  no 
grateful  responses  in  his  heart. 

At  this  moment  the  door-bell  rang,  followed  by  the  sound  of 
merry  voices  in  the  hall  below. 

"  Your  friends  are  coming,  and  I  will  go,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  not  yet !  "  she  replied,  hurriedly.  "  There  is  one 
thing  that  I  must  say  to  you.  I  must  know  about  my  affairs. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  everything.  It  will  employ  my  mind, 
and  you  know  that  you  can  do  nothing  legally  in  regard  to  them 
without  my  consent." 

"  Let  us  talk  about  this  at  leisure.  Your  friends  will  be 
here  in  a  moment.' 

i 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  267 

He  turned  to  go  out  and  heard  the  words  : 

"  I  must  insist  on  this,  Mr.  Benson.  It  must  be  done  at 
once.  I  cannot  live  in  this  way." 

Mr.  Benson  opened  the  door  and  met  the  incoming  visitor? 
whom  he  received  with  his  accustomed  courtesy.  Then  turn- 
ing, he  said  : 

"  Good-night,  my  child  1 "  in  his  most  affectionate  tone,  and 
sought  his  library. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

*THB   LARKIN   BUREAU"  HAS  AN   INSTRUCTIVE  SESSION,  NICHO- 
LAS  RECEIVES   A   STARTLING   LETTER,  AND   MR.    BEN- 
SON  MISSES   HIS   CHANCE    FOR   SAVING   HIMSELF. 

"  THE  Larkin  Bureau "  was  in  session  again.  It  was  the 
habit  of  this  little  group,  consisting  of  the  young  people  with 
whom  our  story  has  made  the  reader  familiar,  and  others 
with  whose  personalities  the  story  does  not  need  to  be  bur- 
dened, to  relate  their  experiences  and  to  discuss  "  ways  and 
means."  Their  interest  in  these  meetings  surpassed  that  with 
which  they  regarded  any  other  of  the  social  assemblages  of  the 
winter. 

Already  hints  of  some  of  the  fresh  experiences  of  Nicholas 
had  been  gathered  by  different  members  of  the  company,  and 
all  were  desirous  to  hear  the  complete  story  from  his  own  lips. 
They  listened  with  the  profoundest  interest,  and  with  much 
laughter,  to  the  recital  of  the  incidents  connected  with  his  en- 
counter with,  and  capture  of,  the  three  rogues  he  had  under- 
taken to  reform.  Quite  unconsciously  to  himself,  he  revealed 
his  own  gifts  and  his  own  character  in  his  narrative,  as  vividly 
as  he  did  those  of  the  rogues.  Miss  Larkin  and  Glezen  ex- 
changed significant  glances,  which  meant :  "  He  is  even  better 
and  brighter  than  we  thought  him  to  be." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Minturn,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  these 
men  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Larkin. 

"  That  is  the  question  you  are  to  help  me  to  answer,"  he 
replied. 

"  But  you  have  your  own  idea  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  needs  to  be  done.  They  must  be  kept 
busy,  and  kept  interested  and  contented.  They  are,  in  some 
way,  to  be  so  helped  back  to  their  sense  of  manhood,  and  they 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  269 

are  so  to  commit  themselves  to  a  new  course  of  life  that  they 
will  never  fall  again.  How  to  effect  these  objects  is  the  great 
question,  and  I  really  feel  incompetent  to  answer  it." 

"  The  difficulty  to  be  overcome  in  the  attempt  to  reform  a 
pauper  of  any  sort,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  "  lies  in 
the  impossibility  of  placing  him  in  dignified  conditions.  No 
matter  what  ambitions  and  resolutions  you  may  be  able  to  stir 
in  a  man  whose  conditions  are  mean,  and  suggestive  only  of 
his  animal  wants,  they  fade  out  when  he  realizes  the  setting  in 
which  his  life  is  placed.  His  wife  and  children  are  ragged,  his 
tenement  is  filthy,  his  neighborhood  is  base,  and  everything 
around  him  is  a  draught  upon  his  self-respect.  How  he  is  to 
get  that  which  will  keep  him  and  his  alive  is  the  ever-present 
question.  Every  thought  is  concentrated  upon  his  animal  life. 
Every  thought  of  his  neighbor  is  engaged  in  the  same  way.  In 
this  respect  they  are  all  like  babies.  Everything  that  comes  to 
their  hands  is  carried  at  once  to  their  mouths.  They  cannot  see 
any  significance  in  the  Christianity  which  good  people  preach 
to  them  unless  it  will,  in  some  way,  feed  them  or  give  them 
money." 

"  Well,  I  have  removed  my  men  from  their  mean  conditions," 
said  Nicholas,  "  and  I  shall  lend  them  books  and  pictures." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  so  much  about  them,  as  about  those 
who  are  in  worse  conditions,"  said  Miss  Larkin.  "  If  we  could 
only  contrive,  in  some  way,  to  dignify  the  facts  of  their  every- 
day life  and  surroundings,  to  inspire  ambitions  and  emulations 
among  them,  to  enable  them  to  see  that  even  poverty  has 
its  poetical  side,  and  that  their  pinched  lives  may  be  digni- 
fied by  humble  spiritualities,  we  could  do  much  for  them. 
Until  we  can  accomplish  this,  every  good  thing  which  we 
do  for  them  will  be  debased.  We  must  make  men  and 
women  of  them  before  they  will  answer  to  motives  addressed 
to  men  and  women.  There  is  no  use  in  addressing  our 
religion  to  an  open  mouth ;  we  must  have  the  open  mind  and 
heart." 

"  You  have  taken  a  very  large  contract,  my  good  friends,"/ 


270  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

said  Glezen,  who  had  not  entered  very  heartily  into  their 
schemes.  "  Wise  heads  have  been  trying  to  solve  this  problem 
for  a  great  many  years,  and  they  have  never  solved  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Nicholas,  "  perhaps  the  solution  of  the  problem 
is  to  be  revealed  unto  babes.  I  believe  in  Christian  benevo- 
lence, of  the  right  sort,  but  I  suspect  that  the  benevolence  of 
religious  propagandism  is  not  exactly  the  thing  for  our  pauper 
population.  There  is  one  field,  it  seems  to  me,  which  Chris- 
tian benevolence  has  never  properly  occupied.  It  has  fed  the 
mouth  and  clothed  the  back,  and  thus  nursed  the  very  greed 
which  it  ought  to  have  destroyed.  When  it  has  done  this,  it 
nas  undertaken  to  give  to  the  pauperism  it  has  helped  to  de- 
velop, the  Christian  religion.  I  don't  believe  it  can  be  made 
to  grow  on  such  a  stock.  I  believe  you  might  just  as  well 
preach  religion  to  a  stable  full  of  ravenous  horses.  There  is  an 
intermediate  ground  that  Christian  benevolence  generally  has 
failed  to  occupy.  There  is,  now  and  then,  a  missionary  or  a 
Christian  preacher,  who  sees  the  right  thing  to  be  done ;  but 
most  of  them  ignore  the  conditions  of  the  life  they  attempt  to 
benefit,  and,  after  cramming  and  clothing  the  body,  present 
their  religion  in  the  form  of  a  sermon  or  a  tract.  I  feel  sure 
that  if  three-quarters  of  the  money  that  has  been  expended  on 
food  and  clothing,  and  Sunday-schools  and  preaching,  had  been 
devoted  to  the  enterprise  of  placing  the  pauper  population  in 
better  conditions, — to  giving  them  better  tenements,  better  fur- 
niture, instruction  in  the  facts  and  possibilities  of  common  life, 
entertaining  books,  suggestive  pictures,  and  training  in  house- 
hold arts, — the  good  results  to  religion  itself  would  be  ten-fold 
greater  than  they  are." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  all  this  ?  "  inquired  Glezen,  with  genu- 
ine surprise. 

"I  never  learned  it;  I  see  it,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  I  thank 
God  that  I  never  learned  anything  to  cloud  my  instincts  in 
this  matter." 

"  Well,  you  seem  to  have  succeeded  very  well,  so  far,  with  the 
three  fellows  whose  salvation  you  have  undertaken.  The  end 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  «7i 

is  not  yet,  even  with  them,  but  I'm  inclined  to  think  you  can 
manage  them." 

"  I  am  going  to  make  them  help  me  in  some  way,"  said 
Nicholas.  "The  reformed  drunkard  knows  what  motives  to 
address  to  a  man  who  is  still  a  slave  to  his  vice,  and  I  don't  see 
wny  a  reformed  pauper  cannot  be  as  useful  to  the  class  from 
which  he  has  risen." 

"We  must  all  be  careful  about  one  thing,"  said  Miss  Larkin; 
"  we  must  be  careful  not  to  forget  that  the  poor  who  need  aid 
are  not  all  voluntary  paupers,  and  we  must  not  forget  the  little 
cnildren." 

This  remark  brought  out  Miss  Coates,  whose  whole  heart 
was  with  the  children,  and  who  believed  that  the  way  to  cure 
pauperism  was  to  stop  raising  paupers. 

"Now  you  touch  the  vital  point,"  she  said.  "I  have  not 
much  faith  in  the  reformation  of  the  confirmed  paupers,  but  I 
have  great  faith  in  the  training  up  of  a  generation  of  children 
that  will  wipe  out  pauperism." 

"  Do  you  suppose  you  can  counteract  on  Sunday  a  week's 
teaching  in  pauperism  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas.  "  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  children  who  live  in  a  room  little  better  than  a  stye, 
and  who  hear  nothing  talked  of  but  food  and  the  easiest  way  to 
get  it,  and  who  are  instructed  to  manage  for  the  reception  of 
benefactions  from  their  teachers,  can  be  cured  of  pauperism  in 
a  Sunday-school  ?  Their  whole  life  is  in  pauper  homes  and 
pauper  conditions." 

"  They  can  be  taught  honesty  and  truthfulness  and  moral  obli- 
gation, at  least,"  she  responded. 

"  Under  hopeless  disadvantages,  I  fear,"  he  said. 

"  Would  you  advise  that  we  let  them  alone  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  but  they  ought  to  have  something  more  done  for  them 
— something  more  and  of  a  different  kind.  Your  teaching  will 
go  to  waste,  otherwise.  You  will  find  that  parental  influence 
will  quite  overbalance  yours." 

"  I  am  ready  to  learn,"  she  said ;  "  but  until  I  do  learn  I 
shall  work  in  the  old  way." 


afa  NICHOLAS  MINTURN.          , 

"  Oh,  tell  us  about  Bob  Spencer,"  said  Miss  llmansee,  who 
was  getting  somewhat  bored  by  the  character  of  the  discussion, 
in  which  she  was  incompetent  to  bear  a  part. 

Miss  Coates  laughed.  She  had  a  good  deal  to  tell,  beyond 
what  she  had  reported  on  the  night  of  her  visit  to  the  Spencer 
family.  Even  Glezen  had  heard  nothing  of  her  Sunday  experi- 
ences, and  when,  in  her  own  lively  and  graphic  way,  she 
related  the  incidents  of  her  memorable  encounter  with  one  who 
was  so  very  sure  that  he  was  a  bad  boy,  his  merriment  was 
without  bounds.  He  walked  the  room  and  clapped  his  hands, 
and  roared  with  laughter. 

"  Good  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Good  !  Now  you  touch  what 
you  call  the  vital  point.  These  fellows  all  need  flogging — every 
man  and  boy  of  them.  I  tell  you  that  what  we  call  the  Chris- 
tian amenities  and  forbearances  are  lost  on  this  whole  crew. 
They  don't  understand  them,  and  they  despise  them.  Bob 
Spencer  is  not  a  pauper  exactly,  but  he  is  in  danger  of  becom- 
ing one,  by  his  associations ;  and  I  believe  his  soul  as  good  as 
saved.  Didn't  he  fight  ?  " 

"How  could  he?" 

"  And  has  he  been  to  your  school  again  ?  " 

"Regularly." 

"  How  does  he  behave  ?  " 

"  He  not  only  behaves  well  himself,  but  he  keeps  the  other 
boys  in  order,  and  I  believe  he  would  fight  for  me  at  the  shortest 
notice  against  the  greatest  odds." 

"  Now  here's  a  reformation  worth  having,"  said  Glezen. 
"  Don't  leave  chastisement  out  of  your  scheme,  Nicholas.  I 
tell  you  if  s  worth  more  than  all  your  preaching  and  teaching. 
Knock  the  wickedness  out  of  them,  and  drive  the  goodness  in. 
Sentiment  is  lost  in  this  business.  Miss  Coates  has  made  my  life 
brighter  from  this  hour,  and  Bob  Spencer  has  become  very  dear 
to  my  heart.  I'll  engage  him  for  an  office-boy  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  will  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Coates  with  delight. 

"  Don't  strike  me  ! "  said  Glezen,  dodging,  as  if  he  expected 
a  blow.  '  I  assure  you  I  meant  him  no  harm.  I'll  dress  him 


NICHOLAS  M1NTURN.  273 

in  a  blue  roun  Jabout  with  brass  buttons,  and  lavish  my  wasting 
affections  upon  him." 

The  reader  has  already  perceived  that  Glezen  had  a  sharper 
bark  than  bite,  and  that  while  he  assumed  the  attitude  of  an  out- 
side critic,  he  was  quite  ready  to  second,  in  any  practical  way 
that  was  possible  to  a  man  absorbed  in  his  own  affairs,  the 
operations  of  the  enthusiasts  around  him.  His  interest  in  his 
new  clerk  was  genuine,  and  his  knowledge  of  men  enabled  him 
to  manage  him  with  prudent  skill.  He  saw  that  Bob  Spencer 
had  been  thoroughly  shamed,  and  brought  to  a  "realizing 
sense "  of  the  fact  that  he  was  not  a  very  bad  boy  after  all. 
That  he  had  been  heartily  flogged,  and  had  responded  kindly  to 
the  influence  of  the  discipline,  won  his  heart  for  the  boy. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Miss  Coates. 

"  Up  to  the  measure  of  my  interests  and  the  capacities  of 
my  office — that's  all,"  said  he.  "  You  must  see,"  he  went  on, 
"  that  I  cannot  do  any  more  for  you.  I'm  not  the  keeper  of  a 
museum  for  the  storage  of  your  trophies.  You  will  be  obliged 
to  enlarge  your  acquaintance.  I  can  take  care  of  one  or  two 
of  the  first  drops,  but,  when  the  shower  comes,  buckets  will 
not  do.  You  will  be  obliged  to  build  a  reservoir." 
»  When  the  laugh  that  followed  Glezen' s  words  had  subsided, 
Miss  Larkin  said : 

"There  is  one  subject  that  I  would  like  to  hear  discussed 
to-night.  I  need  to  be  instructed  upon  it,  for,  as  it  stands  now 
in  my  mind,  it  is  a  burden  upon  my  judgment  and  my  con- 
science." 

"  Broach  it,  by  all  means,"  said  Glezen,  promptly.  "  Knowl- 
edge is  of  no  account  in  this  company,  so  long  as  we  have  a 
man  here  who  sees.  Ladies,  Mr.  Minturn  awaits  the  question." 

"  I'm  very  much  in  earnest,  Mr.  Glezen,"  said  Miss  Larkin, 
"so  please  don't  make  fun  of  me,  or  of  anybody.  You  know 
that  the  times  are  very  hard.  The  poor  throughout  the  city 
are  suffering,  and  we  are  all  called  upon  to  help  them.  Now, 
the  question  as  to  what  we  who  have  money  can  do  for  them, 
without  injuring  them,  is  a  very  important  one.  I  have  felt  as 

12* 


274  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

if  I  could  not  spend  a  penny  on  myself — as  if  I  ought  to  curtail 
my  comforts,  and  drop  all  my  luxuries.  It  somehow  seems  when 
I  purchase  anything  for  my  own  gratification,  as  if  I  were  taking 
the  bread  out  of  mouths  that  are  starving.  My  life  is  really 
made  quite  unhappy  by  this  thought." 

"  Put  her  out  of  her  misery  at  once,  Nicholas,"  said  Glezen, 
"  If  you  don't,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  do  it  myself." 

1  Perhaps  we  had  better  learn  what  the  wisdom  of  the  world 
says  first,"  said  Nicholas,  with  a  laugh,  "  and,  if  that  fails,  we'll 
fall  back  on  the  unsophisticated  instinct." 

"  Well,"  said  Glezen,  "  I  suppose  I  am  a  little  heterodox  on 
this  matter.  One  fact,  however,  we  may  all  regard  as  estab- 
lished, viz.,  that  it  is  a  curse  to  a  poor  man  to  give  him  what 
his  labor  can  fairly  earn.  I  know  it  is  the  custom  of  rich  peo- 
ple, when  hard  times  come  down  upon  the  community,  to  cut 
off  their  luxuries,  and  all  unnecessary  expenditures,  not  because 
they  cannot  afford  them,  but  from  the  fear  of  some  disaster 
that  may  come  to  them.  They  give  up  their  carriages,  stop 
dining  their  friends,  suppress  their  social  assemblies,  cease  buy- 
ing clothes,  and  by  every  action  and  all  their  policy  do  what 
they  can  to  deprive  those  who  have  ministered  to  their  artificial 
wants — to  their  extravagances,  if  you  please — of  employment. 
When  they  have  done  this,  and  brought  about  a  state  of  starva- 
tion among  those  who  have  depended  upon  them,  then  they 
wonder  whether  they  had  better  make  paupers  of  them  or  set 
them  to  work." 

"  Bravo  !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas. 

"  I  see,  and  I  thank  you,"  said  Miss  Larkin. 

"  Don't  thank  me,"  said  Glezen.  "  Spare  my  blushes.  You 
embarrass  me." 

"Go  on,"  said  Miss  Coates,  who  was  getting  new  ideas, 
and  arriving  at  the  practical  centre  of  the  subject  much  quicker 
than  she  had  expected  to. 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me,"  Glezen  proceeded,  "  that  if  there  is 
a  time  in  a  rich  man's  life  when  he  should  indulge  in  luxuries, 
or,  perhaps,  I  should  say,  use  his  money  in  such  a  way  as  to 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  275 

give  people  work  to  do,  it  is  a  time  of  depression  like  this. 
If  he  has  building  to  do,  let  him  build.  Materials  and  labor  are 
cheap,  and  he  never  will  have  so  good  a  time  again.  He  cer- 
tainly will  not,  if  he  waits  until  better  times  arrive.  Instead  of 
this,  he  shuts  up  his  purse,  curtails  his  expenses,  and  waits  while 
people  starve.  The  truth  is  that  half  the  evils  which  the  poor 
are  feeling  now,  come  from  the  rich  man's  short-sightedness 
and  cowardliness.  Every  luxury  that  he  indulges  in  gives  work 
to  somebody.  Every  enterprise  that  he  engages  in,  puts  bread 
into  hungry  mouths.  I  should  say  that  every  rich  man  who  cuts 
off  his  luxuries  in  a  time  like  this,  or  fails  to  devise  all  possible 
schemes  to  keep  the  poor  employed,  and  then  sits  down  and 
doles  out  his  money  to  keep  them  from  starving,  most  lamenta- 
bly fails  of  doing  his  duty.  I'm  not  a  rich  man,  but  if  any  of 
my  good  friends  have  more  money  than  they  know  what  to  do 
with,  I  advise  them  to  spend  it  for  something  that  will  give 
work  to  idle  hands, — to  do  this  at  once,  and  do  it  all  the  time. 
The  work  that  produces  a  garment  which  you  procure  as  a  lux- 
ury, is  to  the  person  who  makes  it  a  necessity.  The  house 
which  you  build  in  a  time  of  depression,  helps  to  bring  the  bet- 
ter time  when  you  can  get  a  good  rent  for  it.  The  fact  is  that 
the  good  time  we  are  all  waiting  for  is  locked  up,  in  the  form 
of  money,  in  the  coffers  of  those  who  refuse  to  use  it  to  their 
own  advantage,  and  the  advantage  of  those  who  are  suffering 
for  lack  of  labor." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  think  you  are  very  heterodox,"  said  Miss 
Larkin.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  common  sense  on  your  side, 
and  I  know  that  my  way  seems  much  clearer  to  me,  and  that  I 
feel  very  much  relieved." 

"  So  say  we  all,"  said  Nicholas. 

Glezen  rose  to  his  feet,  placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
made  a  low  bow.  "  I  am  very  much  honored,"  he  said.  "  Ask 
me  another." 

At  this  moment  Nicholas  drew  his  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  and,  as  he  shook  it  out,  a  letter  fell  to  the  floor.  He 
picked  it  up,  and,  looking  at  it,  said  : 


«;6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Here  is  a  note  that  was  handed  to  me  by  the  postman  as  I 
was  leaving  home  to-night.  I  had  forgotten  it.  Permit  me  to 
open  it." 

He  broke  the  seal,  and  the  others  observed  him  with  curious 
interest  while  he  read  it,  for  his  countenance  betrayed  surprise 
and  wonder. 

"  Shall  I  read  this  to  you  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Do  so  ! "  from  all. 

As  he  reads  it,  it  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  look  over  his 
shoulder  aud  report  the  wretched  orthography  in  which  the  note 
is  couch  ;d,  but  we  will  take  it  from  his  lips. 

"  MR.  MINTURN  : — It  is  best  for  you  not  to  show  your  head 
at  The  Crown  and  Crust  again.  You  are  spotted,  and  you'll 
be  took  care  of  by  them  as  knows  you.  You  can't  catch  me  if 
you  try,  so  give  that  up.  If  you  want  to  talk  about  the  bonds, 
there's  ways  of  doing  it.  The  silver  you  will  never  see  again. 
That's  gone  ;  but  the  bonds  are  placed,  and  you  can  get  them 
if  you  are  willing  to  come  down  handsome.  I  haven't  got  'em, 
but  I  know  where  they  be,  and  I  can  tell  you  where  they  be, 
but  you'll  have  to  show  the  color  of  your  money.  I  advise  you 
as  a  friend  to  keep  out  of  our  part  of  the  town,  but  the  bonds  are 
nearer  to  you  than  you  know,  and  you  can  have  'em  if  you'll 
pay. — Write  to  Bill  Sanders,  and  the  letter*!!  come  to  me,  but 
that's  not  my  name." 

The  little  company  were  very  much  excited  over  the  leltei. 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  said  Glezen. 

He  took  it,  and  read  it  through. 

"  If  s  genuine,  I  think,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  back. 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  it,  or  do  about  it  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"Do  nothing  in  a  hurry,"  Glezen  replied.  "I  will  see  you 
again  about  it." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  genuine,"  said  Nicholas,  who  remembered  and 
then  recounted  to  his  companions  the  bootless  chase  he  had 
indulged  in,  on  the  night  of  his  visit  to  The  Crown  and  Crust. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  277 

"  The  fellow  is  out  of  money  again,"  said  Nicholas,  "  and 
does  not  dare  to  offer  his  bonds  in  the  market.  He  undoubt- 
tedly  supposes  that  I  know  their  numbers,  and  that  Wall  street 
knows  them." 

The  incident  of  the  letter  quite  diverted  the  thoughts  of  the 
company  from  the  topics  they  had  met  to  discuss,  and,  aftex  ,1 
desultory  conversation,  the  visitors  rose  to  take  their  leave. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  said  Nicholas.  "  I  will  be  with  you  in  a 
moment." 

He  passed  out  of  the  door  with  the  intention  of  showing  the 
letter  to  Mr.  Benson.  Arriving  at  the  library,  where  he  knew 
that  gentleman  always  spent  his  evenings,  he  paused,  and  over- 
heard voices.  Mr.  Benson  had  company.  Nicholas  hesitated. 
He  was  standing  within  three  feet  of  his  own  bonds.  He  could 
not  suspect  it,  of  course,  but  there  was  a  strange  influence  upon 
him.  He  had  no  love  for  Mr.  Benson,  but  he  felt  that  he  must 
see  him.  The  earnest  conversation  that  was  in  progress  in  the 
room  withheld  him,  however,  and  he  turned  reluctantly  away, 
and  rejoined  his  friends. 

Soon  they  all  went  out  together,  and  as  Nicholas  passed  Mr. 
Benson's  door,  he  paused.  Then  he  went  half  way  down  the 
stairs,  and  paused  again,  turned,  and  started  to  go  back.  He 
finally  concluded  that  he  would  not  return,  and  then  he  hur- 
riedly ran  down  the  stairs  into  the  street. 

Why  did  he  not  carry  out  his  purpose  ?  What  was  it  that 
suggested  it,  and  urged  him  to  it  ?  Some  influence  was 
upon  him  to  which  he  was  unaccustomed.  Some  angel  was 
whispering  to  him,  though  he  could  not  understand  the  language. 
He  did  not  know  how  much  he  had  done,  or  failed  to  do,  tc 
decide  Mr.  Benson's  fate.  He  could  not  know  that  the  man 
from  whom  he  had  turned  away  was  passing  through  a  great 
temptation,  and  that,  debased  as  he  had  been  in  many  respects, 
he  would  have  been  glad  of  any  occasion  that  would  compel 
him  to  put  the  terrible  bonds  out  of  his  hands. 

He  had  now  had  them  in  his  possession  for  several  weeks. 
They  had  begun  to  seem  like  his  property.  In  his  own  mind 


a  78  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

they  were  beginning  to  form  a  part  of  the  barrier  that  he  was 
trying  to  build  between  himself  and  bankruptcy.  As  a  last  re- 
sort, he  could  raise  money  on  them,  and,  although  they  were 
not  his,  he  did  not  absolutely  know  whose  they  were.  The  man 
who  had  delivered  them  to  him  did  not  own  them — that  was 
certain.  Was  it  a  kind  Providence  that  had  placed  them  in  his 
hands  ?  Who  could  tell  ?  Would  it  not  be  just  as  well  for  the 
bonds  to  serve  temporarily  his  purpose,  who  was  trying  to  save 
himself  and  preserve  his  trusts,  as  to  lie  idle  in  his  safe  ? 

While  these  sophistries  were  exercising  his  mind,  he  knev 
that  he  was  debasing  himself,  but  there  was  a  strange  feeling  o. 
helplessness  within  him,  as  if  the  good  angel  and  the  bad  angel 
of  his  life  were  engaged  in  a  struggle  for  his  soul,  quite  inde 
pendently  of  his  own  will  and  his  own  responsibility. 

If  in  this  mood  Nicholas  had  found  him,  and  shown  him  the 
letter  he  had  received,  he  would  have  hailed  the  message  of  the 
robber  as  a  message  from  God.  That  would  have  decided  the 
matter.  He  might  not  at  that  moment  have  surrendered  the 
property,  but  he  would  have  seen  the  impossibility  of  using  it  for 
himself.  He  would  have  been  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  a 
tormenting  temptation — a  temptation  to  use  that  which  was  not 
his  by  any  valid  title,  and  a  temptation  to  bring  himself  to  the 
belief  that  wrong  was  right. 

Ah !  if  Nicholas  had  only  gone  in  when  he  intended  to  go 
in,  how  different  it  all  might  have  been  with  Mr.  Benson  !  If 
he  had  known  what  the  result  of  his  visit  would  have  been  upon 
the  man  who  disliked  and  even  hated  him,  he  would,  if  neces- 
Wry,  have  burst  in  the  door.  But  he  did  not  go  in. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE   PEOPLE   OF    "THE    BEGGAR'S  PARADISE  "  ATTEND  A   GRE>  1 

BREAD-MEETING    AT     "THE    ATHENEUM,"    AND    NICHOLAS 

AND    CAVENDISH    MAKE   THEIR   FIRST   SPEECHES. 

NICHOLAS  visited  his  proteges  every  evening  for  a  week,  after 
he  had  procured  places  and  employment  for  them.  He  carried 
them  newspapers  and  books,  read  to  them,  discussed  business 
and  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  and  heard  the  stories  of  their  ex- 
perience in  their  new  spheres  of  life.  It  would  be  hard  to  tell 
whether  he  or  they  learned  the  more,  or  enjoyed  the  more,  in 
these  reunions.  That  they  missed  their  former  excitements  and 
their  vagrant  liberty,  was  very  evident ;  but  no  one  of  them 
seemed  so  far  to  regret  the  change  as  to  be  tempted  to  return 
to  his  old  life.  Every  day  placed  them  further  from  danger, 
and  all  of  them  had  conceived  a  hearty  respect  and  friendship 
for  their  benefactor.  Nicholas  was  very  much  gratified  that,  at 
the  end  of  the  first  week,  they  paid  their  board-bills,  though 
they  must  have  been  sorely  tempted  to  use  the  money  in  their 
hands  for  the  improvement  of  their  wardrobe.  For  this, 
Nicholas  and  they  were  indebted  to  Glezen,  who  had  had  a 
long  talk  with  Cavendish,  and  placed  upon  him  the  responsi- 
bility of  seeing  that  his  companions  did  their  duty. 

The  result  of  many  discussions,  .in  which  the  reclaimed  va- 
grants gave  Nicholas  some  valuable  lessons  in  human  nature 
and  philosophical  policy,  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  week,  in 
an  announcement  which  threw  one  of  the  worst  and  poorest 
neighborhoods  of  the  city  into  a  fever  of  curious  excitement. 
"The  Beggar's  Paradise,"  as  the  neighborhood  was  familiarly 
called,  had  something  new  to  think  of  and  talk  about. 

Nicholas,  in  his  conversations  with  Cavendish,  found  that  he 
was  a  man  of  very  fair  education,  and  exceptionally  versatile 


28o  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

gifts.  He  had  been  the  inventor  of  a  thousand  schemes  for 
winning  money  without  work ;  his  wits  had  been  sharpened  in 
all  directions  ;  he  was  familiar  with  every  phase  of  pauper  life  j 
he  knew  thoroughly  the  kind  of  demoralization  which  it  engen 
dered,  and  he  possessed  not  only  a  facile  tongue,  but  an  illimit- 
able impudence,  which  a  worthy  motive  could  readily  soften 
into  self-respectful  courage  and  ingenious  address. 

On  the  border  of  "  The  Beggar's  Paradise,"  at  the  corner 
of  a  street  devoted  mainly  to  the  purchase  and  sale  of  old 
clothes,  many  of  which  were  collected  and  pawned  by  the  beg- 
gars themselves,  there  was  a  dilapidated  assembly-room,  called 
by  the  ambitious  proprietor  "  The  Atheneum."  In  earlier  days 
it  had  been  the  scene  of  sundry  cheap  shows  and  low  theatrical 
exhibitions.  During  one  whole  season  a  quartette  of  negro 
minstrels,  with  very  large  posters  and  very  small  jokes,  had 
occupied  "The  Atheneum."  This  was  in  its  "palmiest  days." 
But  the  minstrels  and  the  glory  departed  together.  The  grime 
of  years  had  clothed  itself  upon  the  bare  arms  and  legs  of  Mel- 
pomene and  Terpsichore,  which  illuminated  the  drop-scene  of 
the  little  stage ;  many  of  the  seats  were  broken  ;  the  spiders 
had  woven  their  gray  webs  across  the  angles  and  corners ;  boys 
had  scrawled  the  wall  with  rude  effigies  of  the  proprietor,  and 
legends  not  altogether  complimentary  to  his  sense  of  decency 
and  habits  of  cleanliness,  and  everything  betrayed  not  only  the 
degeneracy  of  the  hall  itself,  but  that  of  the  neighborhood  on 
which  it  had  originally  depended  for  support. 

Nicholas,  for  a  very  modest  sum,  secured  a  lease  of  "  The 
Atheneum "  for  six  months.  He  caused  the  shutters  to  be 
opened  one  bright  morning,  started  the  fires,  put  a  little  army 
of  laboring  men  and  women  into  the  room  with  brooms  and 
scrubbing-brushes,  rolled  the  presiding  muses  out  of  sight,  and 
before  night  had  a  clean  little  theater  that  would  comfortably 
seat  five  hundred  people. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  informed  his  friends  and  associates 
of  what  he  was  doing,  and  the  greatest  curiosity  and  interest 
prevailed  throughout  the  little  group.  Ways  and  means  were 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  281 

discussed,  prophesies  were  indulged  in,  and  all  looked  forward 
to  the  night  of  the  opening  with  keenly-  delightful  anticipations. 
The  announcement  of  the  first  performance  at  "  The  Athen- 
eum  "  was  composed  by  "  The  Larkin  Bureau,"  and  revised 
and  modified  under  the  suggestions  of  Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish  and 
his  friends ;  and  "  The  Beggar's  Paradise "  awoke  one  morn- 
ing to  the  surprise  of  the  flaming  poster,  on  every  convenient 
dead- wall  of  the  region,  to  which  allusion  has  already  been  made. 
It  read  as  follows  : 

GREAT  BREAD-MEETING  ! 

Every  Ticket  a  Loaf  of  Bread,  wrapped  neatly  in  brown  paper  1 
Good  news  to  "  The  Beggar's  Paradise  ! " 

Re-opening  of  The  Atheneum  !  On  Thursday  evening,  January  loth,  at 
8  o'clock,  The  Atheneum  will  be  re-opened  for  a  lecture  on  bread, 

HOW  TO  GET  IT  AND  HOW  TO  MAKE  IT  I 

The  tickets,  each  of  which  will  be  a  loaf  of  the  best  bread,  are  placed  at 
the  low  price  of  one  dime.  Just  five  hundred  loaves  will  be  packed  in  the 
box-office,  and  every  member  of  the  audience,  on  payment  of  the  admission- 
fee,  will  receive  a  loaf,  and  be  admitted  to  the  door  on  showing  the  same. 

The  audience  are  particularly  requested  not  to  break  the  papers  and  eat 
the  contents  during  the  exercises  ! 

The  amusements  of  "  The  Beggar's  Paradise "  were  few ; 
and  as  every  attendant  upon  the  performance  was  promised  an 
equivalent  for  his  money  in  bread,  men  and  women  alike  were 
more  than  ready  to  avail  themselves  of  the  opportunity  to  en- 
joy a  social  evening  in  comfortable  quarters. 

During  the  afternoon  of  the  opening  day,  a  huge  load  of  bread 
was  drawn  to  the  door  of  "  The  Atheneum,"  and  carried  up- 
stairs in  the  sight  of  an  admiring  crowd  of  boys  and  idle  men. 
So  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  about  the  bread.  A  com- 
petent force  of  police  was  secured  for  the  preservation  of  order, 
and  for  the  sifting  out  and  sending  from  the  building  such 
drunken  applicants  for  tickets  as  would  be  likely  to  make  dis- 
turbance. 

At  half-past  seven  o'clock,  Nicholas  stationed  himself  in  tho 


282  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

box-office,  with  Talking  Tim  at  his  side.  The  former  was  to 
take  the  money,  and  the  latter  was  to  pass  out  the  bread,  which 
so  filled  the  little  office  that  they  had  hardly  sufficient  room  to 
stand.  Their  friends  had  previously  been  admitted  to  the  hall 
by  a  private  door,  and  had  found  places  for  themselves  upon 
the  stage,  within  sight  of  the  rostrum,  though  hidden  from  the 
auditorium. 

Already  there  was  a  crowd  at  the  door,  covering  the  sidewalk 
for  several  rods,  and  clustering  upon  the  steps  like  a  swarm  of 
bees  upon  an  orchard  limb,  with  a  buzz  sufficiently  suggestive 
to  furnish  new  force  to  the  figure. 

At  last  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  crowd  surged  up  the 
stair-way  in  wild  disorder,  and  with  cries  and  shouts  and  oaths 
that  made  their  entrance  more  like  that  of  a  mixed  herd  of 
cattle  and  swine  and  sheep  than  like  that  of  human  beings. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  leading  to  the  hall  they  encoun- 
tered a  force  of  police,  standing  opposite  the  box-office  in  quiet 
dignity,  and  every  man,  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  officers  of  the 
law,  subsided  into  silence.  Here  and  there  one  stopped  and 
hugged  the  wall,  waiting  for  his  chance  to  turn  back — men  who 
did  not  wish  to  be  recognized,  or  to  come  too  near  to  those 
who  might  remember  a  claim  upon  their  persons. 

Nicholas  had  but  little  difficulty  in  making  change,  as  nearly 
every  man  and  woman  had  brought  only  the  dime  that  would 
secure  admittance ;  so  that  the  hall  filled  rapidly,  and  Tim, 
with  his  one  hand,  had  all  he  could  do  to  pass  out  the  huge 
ticket,  whose  possession  gave  admission.  Before  the  hour  for 
the  beginning  of  the  exercises  arrived,  the  last  loaf  of  the  five 
hundred  had  been  passed  out,  the  box-office  was  closed,  and 
the  remainder  of  the  still  coming  crowd  was  turned  back,  be- 
cause there  was  no  more  room. 

Within  there  was  a  scene  of  confusion,  such  as  the  worst 
theaters  have  rarely  witnessed.  Some  of  the  more  reckless  had 
broken  their  loaves,  and  were  throwing  them  at  each  other 
It  was  a  remarkable  looking  crowd.  Pale  women  sal  holding 
their  loaves  in  their  laps,  as  if  they  were  afraid  their  treasures 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  283 

would  be  snatched  away.  There  was  great  rustling  of  paper, 
there  was  merry  chaffing  on  every  hand,  there  was  impatient 
stamping  of  feet ;  and  the  little  knot  of  philanthropists  behind 
the  wing  of  the  stage,  who  from  sundry  loop-holes  could  see 
everything,  were  in  a  fever  of  excitement. 

One  among  them  was  pale  and  uneasy.  The  success  of  the 
evening  depended  upon  him,  and,  bold  as  he  was,  confident  as 
he  was  in  his  own  resources,  he  was  humble  and  fearful.  At 
last,  when  the  clamor  was  at  its  height,  Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish 
stepped  out  upon  the  stage,  and  advanced  to  a  little  desk  neai 
the  footlights. 

Twenty  men  recognized   him  in  an  instant. 

"  Oh,  Jonas  !  Jonas  ! "  went  up  from  all  parts  of  the  hall. 

"  Who  made  your  boots  ?  " 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  pretty  coat  ?  " 

"  Who  suffered  for  the  bread  ?  " 

"  Where  did  you  sleep  last  night  ?  " 

Cavendish  stood  and. received  these  blows  in  silence.  At 
last,  he  saw  a  brutal  fellow  rise  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  and 
lift  his  loaf  of  bread  to  hurl  it  toward  the  stage,  himself  being 
the  special  target.  He  raised  his  hand  deprecatingly,  and 
some  neighbor  pulled  the  ruffian  back  into  his  seat. 

"  Boys,"  said  Cavendish,  "do  you  believe  in  fair  play  ?  " 

"Yes!"  ''yes!"   "yes!"  from  all  parts  of  the  hall. 

"  Have  you  had  anything  but  fair  play  here  to-night,  so  far  ?  " 

"No,  no,  it's  all  right." 

"Very  well ;  you  will  have  nothing  but  fair  play  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening.  And  now,  will  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  !  go  on  !  go  on  !  " 

Cavendish,  with  one  trembling  hand  upon  the  desk,  and 
leaning  appealingly  and  deprecatingly  forward,  began  : 

"  You  are  all  poor  people  here  to-night.  Some  of  you  are 
very  poor.  Some  of  you  do  not  know  where  your  food  for  to- 
morrow is  coming  from,  but  all  of  you  know  that  you  have  a 
breakfast  in  your  hands,  and  that  you  have  honestly  paid  foi 
it." 


284  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Thaf  s  so !  " 

"  Well,  boys,  I  see  that  some  of  you  know  me." 

"  A  good  many  of  us  know  you,  Jonas." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,  for,  if  you  do,  you  know  that  I  have  been  a* 
poor  as  any  of  you,  that  I  know  what  hard  times  you  have, 
and  that  I  am  acquainted  with  every  disreputable  trick  bj 
which  a  dead-beat  manages  to  keep  body  and  soul  together." 

"  You  can  swear  to  that,  Jonas." 

"Now,"  said  Cavendish,  "I  want  to  tell  you  a  little  story, 
and,  if  you  will  hear  it  through,  perhaps  you  will  hear  the  rest 
that  I  have  to  say." 

"  Go  on,  we'll  hear  you." 

fl  I  was  a  rich  man's  son, — the  son  of  a  man  who  was  fond 
of  me,  and  gave  me  every  advantage, — and  I  was  foolish  and 
wild.  I  squandered  the  money  that  was  left  to  me,  after  I  had 
broken  the  hearts  of  my  father  and  mother." 

"  Oh,  none  of  that !  none  of  that,  Jonas  !  Don't  come  the 
pathetic!" 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  I  say  that  I  broke  the 
hearts  of  my  father  and  mother ;  and  after  that  I  broke  the 
heart  of  as  good  a  wife  as  a  man  ever  had.  I  went  from  bad 
to  worse,  until  the  time  you  first  knew  me.  I  borrowed  money 
to  spend  upon  my  vices,  until  I  could  borrow  no  longer,  and 
then,  dead-beaten,  I  resorted  to  every  scheme  that  my  inge 
nuity  could  devise  to  get  the  money  that  I  would  not  under- 
take to  earn." 

"You  were  an  ornament  to  the  profession,  Jonas.  Don't 
cry  about  it " — from  the  audience. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  cry,  but  I'll  make  you  cry  before  I  get 
through  with  you  :  see  if  I  don't !  " 

"  Pump  away,  Jonas  !  " 

"  Well,  I  played  at  last  a  shabby  trick  upon  a  gentleman. 
I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  what  it  was,  but  I  got  the  money  I 
went  for,  and  then  he  got  me.  (A  general  laugh.)  But  he  bore 
no  grudge  against  me,  and  had  a  hearty  wish  to  help  me.  He 
found  a  place  for  me  to  ..ork.  He  gave  me  good  companion- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  285 

ship  and  books.  He  gave  me  his  own  society,  and  treated  me 
as  a  man  and  as  an  equal.  Since  I  started  in  my  place,  I  have 
earned  my  daily  bread,  and  more ;  and  I  have  found  and 
proved  that  there  is  no  man  so  low,  so  beaten  by  the  world, 
that  he  cannot  rise  and  be  a  man  again.  There  is  not  a  man 
or  woman  in  this  hall  who  begs  from  day  to  day,  who  cannot 
by  industry  and  good  habits  place  himself  or  herself  above 
want,  and  become  something  better  than  a  mere  swallovver  of 
the  earnings  of  other  people." 

"  Now,  mark  you,  I  did  not  intend  to  tell  you  this  when  I 
came  here.  I'm  no  preacher,  but  you  have  compelled  me  to 
explain  my  presence  here  to-night. 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  back  a  little  now,  in  your  own  lives  ? 
Let  us  go  back  to  the  time  when  you  married  that  pretty  girl. 
How  pretty  she  was  !  Do  you  remember  her  rosy  cheeks,  her 
bright  eyes,  her  quick  and  elastic  step,  her  pleasant  ways,  the 
trust  she  had  in  you  ?  Do  you  remember  how  fond  you  were 
of  her  ?  Do  you  remember  how  you  promised  to  work  for  her, 
and  take  care  of  her  ?  Do  you  remember  how  proud  you  felt 
with  her  hand  upon  your  arm,  and  how  you  prized  her  more 
than  all  the  world  beside  ?  Where  is  she  now  ?  In  her  coffin  ? 
I  do  not  see  her  in  this  hall.  I  see  women  here,  care-worn, 
pale,  weary,  with  no  smiles  on  their  faces.  These  are  not  the 
girls  you  married.  Where  are  they  ?  Ah,  boys  !  you  have 
killed  some  of  them,  and  some  of  them  you  have  beaten.  You 
have  made  beggars  of  them  and  their  children.  You  have  dis- 
graced them  and  done  them  a  thousand  wrongs.  Isn't  it  so, 
boys?  Haven't  I  told  you  the  truth?  " 

"  What's  the  use  o'  rakin'  it  up  ?  "  exclaimed  a  rough  fellow, 
wiping  his  eyes,  while  a  dozen  women  were  sobbing  around 
him. 

"You  drove  me  to  it,"  said  Cavendish,  "and  I  told  you  I 
would  make  you  cry,  and  I  have  done  it.  But  I  haven't  told 
you  the  whole  of  my  story  yet.  The  man  who  helped  me  to 
my  place  has  hired  this  hall  for  your  amusement  and  your  help, 
and  I  have  promised  to  stand  by  him.  I'm  going  to  do  it. 


286  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

You  will  always  have  your  money's  worth  in  your  ticket,  as 
you  have  had  it  to-night.  If  you  know  me  at  all,  you  know  I 
can  teach  you  ;  and  if  I  know  you,  I  can  tell  you  a  thousand 
things  that  will  be  useful  for  you  to  learn.  I  would  like  to  see 
"  The  Beggars'  Paradise  "  something  better  than  a  beggars'  hell, 
and  if  you  will  join  hands  with  me  we'll  revolutionize  this  part 
of  the  town,  and  get  the  name  changed.  I  will  work  every  day 
for  myself  for  the  sake  of  working  with  you  at  night." 

"  Bully  for  you,  Jonas  !  * 

"  We'll  think  about  it." 

"Where's  the  boss?" 

After  these  expressions,  coming  from  different  parts  of  the 
hall,  had  died  away,  Cavendish  proceeded  : 

"  I  was  to  speak  about  bread  to-night.  This  preliminary 
talk  that  we  have  had  is  more  than  I  bargained  for. 

"  I  want  you  now  to  follow  me  as  I  try  to  show  you  the 
region  where  the  bread  begins  its  life.  Let  us  take  the  cars 
and  travel  westward.  We  go  one,  three,  five,  seven,  ten, 
twelve  hundred  miles.  We  pass  through  a  great  many  thriving 
cities,  we  cross  many  wonderful  rivers,  we  skirt  the  shores  of 
broad  lakes,  for  a  day  and  a  night,  and  a  day  and  a  night,  and 
on  a  bright  and  dewy  morning  we  stand  upon  a  broad  prairie. 
It  has  been  a  tedious  journey,  but  what  we  open  our  eyes  upon 
now  is  so  great,  so  sweet,  so  wonderful,  that  we  are  repaid  for  our 
fatigues.  The  ocean  itself  does  not  seem  more  illimitable  than 
this  expanse  of  lan/%  all  turned  over  and  harrowed  to  receive 
the  seed  :  before,  endless  prairie  ;  behind,  endless  prairie  ;  at 
the  right  and  left,  nothing  but  prairie, — sometimes  level  like  the 
sleeping  sea,  sometimes  rolling  like  the  ocean  after  a  storm. 

"  The  little  seed-wheat  which  the  thousands  of  workmen  are 
scattering,  has  been  brought  perhaps  from  long  distances,  but 
every  kernel  cost  the  farmer  money.  The  labor  that  sows  it 
costs  the  farmer  money.  All  the  preparation  of  the  ground 
costs  the  farmer  money,  or  his  own  hard  labor.  The  cattle  and 
horses  used  cost  him  labor  or  money. 

"  Go  to  the  same  prairie  in  the  early  autumn.     The  black 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  aSy 

earth  has  turned  into  gold,  and  the  prairie  is  a  yellow  sea,  as 
mobile  and  as  beautiful  as  if  it  were  water.  Every  drop  of 
that  palpitating,  rippling  ocean  of  beauty,  over  which  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds  are  chasing  one  another,  is  a  morsel  of 
bread.  Then,  while  we  drop  the  figure,  come  the  reapers  to  laj 
all  this  beauty  low.  The  reapers  do  their  work  and  get  theii 
pay,  and  then  come  the  threshers,  and  the  money  that  their 
labor  commands  is  added  to  the  aggregate  of  cost.  Then  the 
kernels,  every  one  as  exquisite  as  a  pearl,  are  prisoned  in 
sacks,  bursting  with  fullness,  are  loaded  upon  wains  that  drag 
them  to  the  rail,  and  then  they  begin  the  journey  eastward 
which  we  passed  over  when  we  started  to  see  the  prairie. 
They  ride  on  the  rail  to  the  lake.  They  are  hoisted  into  huge 
elevators.  They  descend  in  streams  into  ships.  They  toss 
upon  the  waters.  Steam  propels  them,  or  the  winds  drive  them 
eastward.  For  long  days  and  nights  they  journey  over  the 
water  and  over  the  land,  until  they  reach  their  destination. 
They  find  the  miller  at  last,  and  are  ground  into  the  finest 
flour.  They  are  barreled  and  shipped  to  the  city.  From  the 
warehouse  they  go  to  the  baker,  and  from  the  baker  they  come 
here,  and  here  you  have  them  in  your  laps. 

"Now  mark  the  process,  and  see  how  every  grain  of  these 
beautiful  loaves  has  been  paid  for.  The  seed  costs  money, 
and  the  man  who  received  the  money  fed  himself  with  it,  and 
thus  secured  pay  for  his  labor.  The  plowing  and  pulverizing  of 
the  soil,  the  covering  of  the  seed,  the  reaping,  the  threshing, 
the  transportation  by  sea  and  land,  the  grinding,  the  baking, 
have  all  been  giving  people  bread.  Every  little  kernel  of 
wheat  in  these  loaves  has  had  a  blessing  in  it  for  every  hand 
that  has  touched  it ;  and  the  money  that  you  have  paid  for  this 
bread  to-night  goes  back  through  a  thousand  hands.  Bakers, 
and  millers,  and  railroad  men,  and  sailors,  and  laborers  of  all 
sorts,  teamsters  and  farmers,  are  helped  by  the  little  dimes  that 
you  have  brought  here  to-night.  All  these  men  depend  upon 
you  and  the  rest  of  us,  to  pay  them  for  the  work  they  have 
done,  and  all  they  ask  is  that  you  shall  work  as  hard  for  them 


288  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

as  they  have  worked  for  you.  Is  there  anything  unreasonable 
about  this  ?  Don't  you  all  feel  better  for  having  paid  for  your 
loaf  of  bread,  and  will  not  the  bread  taste  the  sweeter  for  it  ?  " 

When  Cavendish  had  concluded  this  part  of  the  address,  the 
house  was  perfectly  still.  The  listeners  had  made  an  excursion 
into  the  great  country,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  its  industries, 
and  they  were  thinking  how  many  loaves  of  bread  they  had 
eaten  without  making  any  return  for  them.  He  was  a  graphic 
speaker,  and  having  fairly  got  the  audience  into  his  hands,  he 
had  won  back  all  his  self-possession,  and  was  master  of  the 
situation.  Dull  as  the  minds  of  his  audience  were,  they  had 
followed  him,  and  saw  dimly  what  he  had  been  driving  at. 

"No  man  is  a  real  man  who  is  not  willing  to  do  a  man's 
work,  and  contribute  his  share  to  the  making  of  the  bread  he 
eats,"  said  Cavendish.  "  I  confess  myself  to  have  been  a  mean 
apology  for  a  man, — a  skulk,  a  shirk,  a  leech." 

"  No  doubt  about  that,  Jonas  ! "  from  the  audience. 

"  What  are  you  ?  "  said  Cavendish. 

As  the  owner  of  the  responding  voice  was  a  notorious  dead- 
beat,  and  well-known  to  those  about  him,  a  laugh  of  derision 
went  up  at  his  expense. 

"  I  propose  to  be  a  leech  no  longer.  I  am  ashamed  of  my- 
self," said  Cavendish  ;  "  but  I  must  not  waste  your  time  in  per- 
sonal matters.  It  has  been  promised  that  I  should  tell  you 
how  to  make  bread." 

Then  he  went  into  a  long  and  interesting  description  of  the 
chemical  processes  involved  in  the  making  of  the  loaves  which 
the  audience  held  in  their  hands.  He  broke  open  a  loaf  that 
lay  upon  the  table  at  his  side,  and  compared  it  with  the  miser- 
able stuff  they  were  in  the  habit  of  preparing  for  themselves. 
Then  he  told  them  that  lest  they  should  forget  the  various 
formulas  which  he  had  described  to  them,  he  had  brought  some 
printed  receipts,  which  he  would  distribute  to  them. 

Forthwith  there  appeared  from  the  wing  of  the  stage,  and 
descended  into  the  auditorium,  a  lad  dressed  like  a  page,  in 
a  blue  roundabont  with  brass  buttons — no  less  a  personage 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  289 

inan  Bob  Spencer,  Glezen's  new  boy,  in  the  regalia  of  his  high 
office. 

"  Hullo,  Bob ! "  rose  from  every  part  of  the  hall,  and  Bob 
was  as  proud  of  his  dignity  as  if  he  had  been  a  prince.  He 
passed  among  the  seats,  distributing  his  bundle  of  receipts  right 
and  left.  Every  woman  took  one,  and  laid  it  away  in  her 
pocket  or  her  bosom.  Then  the  boy  ran  swiftly  up  stairs  and 
disappeared. 

It  looked  as  if  the  exercises  were  closing,  when  a  voice 
called  out : 

"  How  are  we  to  get  the  bread  ?  You  promised  to  tell  us 
how  to  get  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Cavendish.  "  I  came  near  forgetting 
that,  I  have  had  so  many  other  things  to  talk  about.  Now,  as 
I  have  dealt  very  frankly  with  you  to-night,  and  acknowledged 
my  own  sins  and  short-comings,  I  have  a  right  to  ask  you  to 
treat  me  in  the  same  way.  How  many  in  this  audience  intend 
to  go  to  an  ale-house,  or  a  gin-shop,  on  their  way  home  and  get 
something  to  drink  ?  Up  with  you  !  Be  fair,  now !  No  skulk 
ing!" 

Cavendish  was  laughing,  and  the  laugh  was  contagious.  The 
atmosphere  was  favorable  to  candor  and  frankness.  One 
lathy,  long  fellow  arose,  amid  universal  merriment,  then  another 
and  another,  until  a  hundred  men  were  on  their  feet. 

"That's  right,"  said  Cavendish.     "Now please  to  sit  down." 

All  resumed  their  seats,  and  then  Cavendish  said  : 

"  I  calculate  that  this  audience  proposes  to  spend  at  least  ten 
dollars  on  the  way  home  for  drink.  There,  you  see,  are  a  hun- 
dred loaves  of  good  honest  bread  that  you  propose  to  throw 
away.  And  what  will  you  get  for  it  ?  An  unhappy  home,  a 
drunken  sleep,  a  head-ache  to-morrow  morning,  unfitness  for 
work,  and  the  necessity  of  driving  your  poor  wives  and  wretch- 
ed children  out  to  beg  for  the  bread  that  will  be  necessary  to 
hold  your  souls  within  your  miserable  carcasses.  Isn't  that 
true  ?  You  know  it  is.  One  way,  then,  to  get  your  bread  is 
to  save  your  money  for  it.  The  other  way  is  to  get  some 
13 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

thing  to  do,  at  any  wages,  and  do  it,  and  get  your  money  foi 
that." 

It  was  evident  that  the  audience  had  risen  to  no  such  de- 
termination as  this.  They  had  been  interested  and  amused, 
but  every  man  had  come  to  the  hall  with  a  scent  of  benevo- 
.ence  in  his  nostrils.  They  knew  that  somebody,  somewhere, 
nad  money ;  and,  when  they  arrived  at  the  hall,  Cavendish  had 
told  them  that  somebody  had  money.  They  wanted  money. 
Their  self-respect  had  been  ministered  to,  but  their  wants  were 
open,  and  the  habit  of  their  lives — the  habit  of  living  and  de- 
siring to  live  on  the  money  of  others — was  not  broken. 

"Where's  the  boss?  '  they  cried. 

"  Trot  him  out ! " 

"  We  want  to  see  him." 

"  Show  us  the  elephant." 

•  They  clapped  their  hands  and  stamped  their  feet,  and  were 
about  breaking  up  in  a  great  tumult,  when  Nicholas  appeared 
at  the  wing  of  the  stage,  advanced  rapidly  to  the  foot-lights,  and 
bowed  to  the  audience. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  I  am  the  boss,  and  I  mean  well  toward 
you  all.  I  wanted  to  do  something  for  you.  I  know  your 
evenings  must  be  rather  dull,  and  that  even  those  among  you 
who  have  homes  are  not  very  comfortable  in  them.  I  thought 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  you  to  have  a  warm,  well-lighted 
hall,  such  as  the  rich  people  have  to  meet  in,  and  that  you 
could  be  interested  here.  I  have  been  very  much  instructed 
and  interested  to-night,  myself,  by  one  from  your  own  ranks, 
and  I  am  sure  that  there  are  hundreds  of  well-educated  people 
in  New  York  who  would  have  been  willing  to  give  five  or  ten 
times  the  sum  your  bread  has  cost  you  for  the  privilege  you 
have  enjoyed.  All  I  have  to  say  is  that  they  cannot  have  it 
at  any  price."  (Cheers,  and  '  bully  for  you  ! ')  "  Is  there 
anything  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

If  he  had  asked  this  question  earlier,  there  would  have  been 
a  call  for  money  from  every  part  of  the  house,  but  the  speaker'i 
respectful  tone,  and  his  evident  good-will,  shamed  them  all  into 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  991 

silence,  except  one  brutal  fellow,  who  said  loudly :  "  Yes !  shell 
out!" 

A  hiss  was  started,  and  a  cry  of  "  shame,  shame,"  went  up 
from  every  part  of  the  hall. 

When  the  tumult  subsided,  Nicholas  said  : 

"  I  may  as  well  answer  this  man  for  myself  and  for  you.  I 
never  gave  a  cent  of  money  to  a  man  in  my  life — to  a  man,  I 
mean,  who  was  able  to  earn  it  and  had  not  earned  it — that  I  was 
not  ashamed  of  myself  and  ashamed  of  him  and  for  him ;  and  I 
promise  you  that  I  will  never  give  you  a  penny  so  long  as  I  live. 
I  would  not  insult  a  man  who  was  capable  of  earning  his  own 
bread  by  offering  him  money.  I  would  not  do  anything  for  any 
man  that  I  would  not  permit  him  to  do  for  me.  I  have  a 
reasonable  amount  of  money  now,  but  I  may  lose  it,  as  multi- 
tudes have  lost  theirs.  If  I  am  unfortunate,  I  will  work  my 
fingers  to  the  bone  before  I'll  beg." 

"  Good  ?  good !  You're  all  right,"  resounded  on  every  hand, 
and  Nicholas  was  about  retiring  from  his  first  public  effort  when 
a  man  rose  in  the  middle  of  the  hall  and  expressed  the  hope 
that  he  would  remain  a  moment. 

Nicholas  recognized  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn,  who,  with  Yank- 
ton,  or  "  Twitchell,"  had  taken  a  seat  in  the  audience,  in  order 
to  be  ready  for  any  emergency.  Both  these  men  were  known, 
and  both  knew  that  their  recent  history  had  not  come  to  the 
ears  of  their  old  associates.  It  was  Lansing  Minturn' s  hand 
that,  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  had  prevented  the  loaf 
from  being  hurled  at  the  head  of  Cavendish.  They  had  led  in 
the  cheers,  and  had  controlled  and  guided  as  well  as  they  could, 
the  demonstrations  of  the  audience. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Lansing  Minturn,  "that  this 
audience  owes  to  the  gentleman  who  has  just  spoken,  and  to 
our  old  friend  Cavendish,  a  vote  of  thanks  for  our  entertain- 
ment here  to-night.  I  therefore  propose  that  the  thanks  of  the 
audience  be  presented  to  them  for  the  use  of  the  hall,  and  the 
very  instructive  and  interesting  address  that  we  have  just  lis- 
tened to." 


»9*  -  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  I  second  the  proposition,"  said  Mr.  Yankton  promptly. 

The  propounder  of  the  motion  put  it  to  vote,  and  it  was  car- 
ried nem  con.  Nicholas,  with  a  smile  of  acknowledgment  on 
his  face,  bowed  to  the  audience  and  retired,  while  Cavendish 
raised  his  hand  and  said : 

"  One  word  more." 

The  audience  paused — some  standing,  some  sitting. 

"  One  week  from  to-night  there  will  be  a  lecture  in  this  hall 
on  '  Soap.' " 

The  announcement  was  greeted  with  the  wildest  merriment 
and  applause. 

"  How  to  make  it  and  how  to  use  it,"  shouted  Cavendish. 

This  addition  excited  loud  laughter  and  cheers,  as  the  grand 
joke  of  the  evening. 

"Every  attendant  presenting  his  dime  at  the  box  office  will 
be  presented  with  a  cake  of  good  soap,  which  will  serve  as  his 
ticket  of  admission  to  the  hall." 

"  We'll  all  come,"  said  Lansing  Minturn. 

"  Every  man  and  woman  of  us,"  shouted  Yankton. 

The  hall  was  quickly  emptied  of  as  merry  an  audience  as 
any  New  York  theatre  sent  into  the  street  that  night.  They 
had  been  interested,  they  had  been  instructed,  they  had  forgot- 
ten for  more  than  an  hour  the  low  motives  of  their  lives.  The 
passengers  upon  the  sidewalks  stopped  and  watched  the  bread- 
bearing  crowd,  and  wondered  what  had  been  done  ;  and  many 
men  went  straight  home  who  had  intended  to  waste  the  scanty 
contents  of  their  pockets  in  drink. 

Nicholas  and  Cavendish,  on  rejoining  the  little  circle  of  friends 
behind  the  wing  of  the  stage,  were  the  recipients  of  quite  an 
ovation.  Both  were  heartily  congratulated.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Coates  were  there,  having  been  attracted  partly  by  curiosity, 
and  partly  by  the  enthusiasm  of  their  daughter.  Mrs.  Coates 
only,  of  all  the  company,  withheld  her  approval. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  "  that  this  meetin'  ought 
to  have  been  opened  with  prayer.  I  may  seem  to  be  a  strange 
woman,  but  I  like  the  good  old  ways." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  293 

"  Y-yes,"  said  Mr.  Coates,  who  saw  that  he  was  the  only 
proper  person  to  make  a  response  to  the  suggestion,  "  b-bait 
your  t-trap  with  a  ch-icken,  c-catch  your  fox,  and  then  b-brush 
the  flies  off  his  face,  and  t-teach  him  the  c-catechism." 

It  would  have  been  too  much  to  expect  of  the  excited  and 
happy  group  that  they  should  receive  this  illustration  of  Mr. 
Coates's  idea  of  the  situation  without  laughter;  but  there  was 
not  one  of  them — there  was  not  one  of  the  most  reverent  of 
them — who  did  not  apprehend  the  unfairness  of  imprisoning  a 
collection  of  five  hundred  people  for  a  special  object,  and  then 
taking  an  advantage  of  their  helplessness  to  secure  another. 
They  had  seen  it  tried,  again  and  again,  and  they  did  not  believe 
in  it.  They  did  believe,  however,  that  God  likes  work  better 
than  words,  that  those  who  honestly  labor  for  his  unfortunate 
children  have  his  blessing  in  advance,  without  those  phrases  of 
public  petition  which  are  uttered  mainly  for  their  moral  effect. 

From  the  hall  the  young  people  went  directly  to  Miss  Lar- 
kin,  who  awaited  their  return  and  report  in  a  fever  of  excite- 
ment. She  had  asked  of  Nicholas  the  privilege  of  sharing  in 
his  expenses,  so  that  she  might  be  reckoned  among  the  agents 
of  the  reform  he  had  undertaken,  and  he  could  not  refuse  her 
request. 

The  meetings  at  "The  Atheroeum"  went  on  during  the  winter. 
The  lecture  upon  soap  was  as  great  a  success  as  that  upon 
bread.  New  seats  were  put  into  the  hall.  The  audience  went 
from  five  hundred  up  to  six  hundred.  "  The  Atheneum  "  had 
never  enjoyed  such  a  season.  The  lecture  on  soap  was  fol- 
lowed by  one  on  carbon  in  all  its  forms,  from  graphite  to  the 
diamond.  The  ticket  for  this  lecture  was  a  little  inkstand, 
made  from  coal  like  that  which  they  burned  upon  their  hearths. 
Cavendish  was  furnished  with  books  for  cramming  purposes, 
and  was  particularly  brilliant  and  graphic  in  his  representation 
of  the  age  when  the  world's  fuel  and  light  were  deposited  in 
their  rocky  store-houses.  From  useful  things  the  lectures  went 
to  ornamental.  The  ticket  to  the  first  of  these  was  a  chromo, 
and  in  this  lecture  upon  art,  Cavendish  told  with  thrilling  effect 


294  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

the  story  of  the  morning  which  he  and  two  of  his  companions 
spent  with  Nicholas  in  his  room.  The  hurling  of  the  Laocoon 
from  its  bracket,  on  that  eventful  morning,  was  made  to  do 
double  duty,  and  the  audience  had  been  so  far  educated  by  the 
exercises  of  the  winter  that  they  could  receive  and  carry  away 
the  lesson. 

There  was  new  life  in  hundreds  of  homes.  Other  philan- 
thropists became  interested  in  the  remarkable  experiment,  and 
the  appearance  of  a  number  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  upon  the 
stage,  with  the  permission  of  the  audience,  came  to  be  a  regu- 
lar and  expected  affair.  Of  course,  those  who  were  poor,  were 
poor  still,  but  something  had  come  into  their  lives  to  give  them 
meaning.  Their  necessaries  lost  their  vulgarity,  and  gradually 
clothed  themselves  with  beauty  and  even  romance.  A  degree 
of  self-respect  came  back  to  them.  They  were  more  industri- 
ous, more  frugal,  less  intemperate.  They  paid  more  attention 
to  their  persons.  They  were  better  dressed  and  cleaner. 

While  this  was  going  on,  other  events  were  in  progress 
among  those  with  whom  our  story  has  brought  us  into  associa- 
tion, and  to  these  we  must  return  for  awhile,  to  come  back  to 
"  The  Atheneum  "  experiment  when  it  takes  on  a  new  charac- 
ter and  develops  a  new  phase  of  interest.  It  is  sufficient  to 
say  now,  in  regard  to  this  experiment,  that  its  course,  though 
always  progressive,  met  with  many  drawbacks  and  difficulties, 
which  taxed  the  time  and  ingenuity  of  those  who  carried  it  on 
to  their  utmost.  Nicholas  was  the  busiest  man  in  New  York. 
He  made  all  the  purchases,  became  a  personal  adviser — almost 
a  father  confessor — to  many  poor  men  and  poor  women,  who 
were  struggling  to  better  their  low  conditions.  He  had  a  great 
deal  of  earnest  help,  but  he  was  the  readiest  man  of  them  all — 
always  a  man  of  bold  and  quick  expedients,  who  never  failed 
of  his  ends,  because  he  would  not  fail 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MR.    BENSON    INDULGES    IN    A    MISINTERPRETATION    OF    PROV1 

DENCE   AND   AN   APPROPRIATION    OF   VALUES 

THAT  DO  NOT  BELONG  TO  HIM. 

ONE  may  not  swear  that  a  river  is  pure  because  heaven  is  to 
be  seen  in  it.  Reflection  is  an  office  of  the  surface.  Many  a 
stream  with  an  under-tide  of  turbid  waters  and  a  muddy  bottom 
mirrors  back  the  courtesies  of  the  trees  upon  its  banks,  but  never 
shows  them  a  pebble. 

Mr.  Benson's  life  seemed  pure.  It  reflected  the  atmosphere 
above  him  and  the  men  around  him.  There  was  not  a  bird  that 
crossed  it  without  seeing  its  double  in  an  inverted  sky.  It  gave 
back  what  it  received.  It  entertained  the  clouds  and  the 
stars ;  and  men  did  not  pause  to  think  that  they  were  only 
looking  into  a  mirror.  Indeed,  they  flattered  the  fact  in  sup- 
posing that  the  difficulty  in  seeing  into  this  life  was  attributable 
to  its  depth  rather  than  its  density. 

It  often  happens,  however,  in  the  clearest  streams,  that  a 
confluent  may  receive  an  independent  freshet,  and  carry  out 
into  the  broad  river  its  burden  of  suspended  uncleanness.  Mr. 
Benson's  financial  troubles  and  the  means  adopted  to  meet  and 
master  them  were  defacing  the  mirror  of  his  life.  The  surface 
was  growing  dull  and  perturbed.  Midway  it  showed  a  separa- 
tion ;  and  side  by  side,  with  only  an  imaginary  or  indistinct 
division,  there  flowed  a  river  that  seemed  clear  as  of  old,  and 
one  that  was  dirty  and  dull. 

If  careless  people  did  not  see  this,  Mr.  Benson  himself  was 
conscious  of  it.  He  was  in  grave  trouble — trouble  not  only 
with  his  affairs,  but  with  himself.  He  had  arrived  at  a  point 
where  he  could  apprehend  the  fact  that  a  fatal  gap  yawned 
between  his  religion  and  his  morality.  He  was  inexpressibly 


296  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

pained  by  this  apprehension,  and  profoundly  puzzled  by  it.  He 
could  not  see  that  his  religion  and  his  morality  had  the  same 
selfish  basis.  He  could  not  comprehend  the  fact  that  his 
morality  had  not  grown  out  of  his  religion — that  they  had  no 
common  root  in  love  to  God  and  love  to  man. 

He  was  sure  that  he  enjoyed  his  religious  exercises.  He  did  not 
see  that  he  enjoyed  them  because  they  had  no  connection  with 
his  moralities.  The  services  of  his  church  on  Sunday,  the 
attendance  upon,  and  the  active  participation  in,  the  social 
religious  gatherings  of  the  week,  personal  devotions,  the  read- 
ing of  his  Bible, — all  these  were  sources  of  comfort  to  him. 
The  faithful  discharge  of  what  he  regarded  as  his  religious  duties 
gave  him  his  best  consolations. 

It  has  been  said  that  there  was  no  vital  relation  between  his 
morality  and  his  religion,  yet  in  his  own  mind  there  was  a  rela- 
tion, so  far  that  he  was  puzzled  to  understand  why  a  man  who 
discharged  his  religious  duties  with  such  careful  punctilio  should 
not  receive  his  reward  in  greater  prosperity.  He  was  a  friend 
of  religion — a  friend  of  God :  why  was  not  God  a  more  helpful 
friend  to  him  ? 

Still,  the  fact  that  God  was  no  more  helpful  did  not  tempt 
him  to  relinquish  his  religious  duties.  Indeed,  the  circum- 
stance that  he  was  doing  doubtful  things  in  the  realm  of  his 
moralities,  stimulated  him  in  what  he  regarded  as  other  good 
directions.  ^He  was  dimly  conscious,  perhaps,  that  he  was  try- 
ing to  blind  the  eyes  of  others  to  his  immoral  doings  and  con- 
ditions, and  that  he  was  apparently  more  religious  because  he 
was  consciously  more  immoral,  but  this  did  not  lead  him  to  any 
painful  mistrust  of  his  motives. 

Mr.  Benson  was  sound  in  his  beliefs,  and  this  fact,  in  such  a 
mind  as  his,  went  a  long  way  in  the  conservation  of  his  self- 
complacency.  To  these  he  clung  with  almost  affectionate 
pertinacity.  Whatever  changes  might  happen  to  his  earthly 
fortune,  his  heavenly  inheritance  should  be  secure.  Concern- 
ing the  duties  in  this  department  of  his  life  he  had  no  doubt, 
even  if  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and  the  infirmities  of  hi« 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  297 

will  under  temptation,  should  warp  or  degrade  his  action  in  his 
practical  dealings  with  the  world.  He  was  at  least  no  heretic, 
and  the  truth  should  always  find  in  him  a  bulwark  and  a  defense. 

The  real  trouble  with  Mr.  Benson  was  that  he  was  obliged  to 
take  care  of  Mr.  Benson  and  Mr.  Benson's  reputation.  He 
had  been  a  wise  and  prosperous  man.  The  community  had 
looked  up  to  him  and  trusted  him.  He  had  nursed  his  reputa 
tion  with  a  degree  of  self-love  of  which  he  was  entirely  uncon- 
conscious.  To  be  greeted,  and  spoken  of,  and  pointed  at,  as  a 
man  of  probity,  as  an  eminent  citizen,  as  a  person  supremely 
trustworthy,  was  the  sweetest  gratification  of  his  life.  Under 
the  inspiration  of  his  own  self-love,  rather  than  that  of  any 
higher  love,  he  had  been  a  moral  man.  When  he  saw  this 
successful  and  moral  man  about  to  tumble  from  his  height  of 
prosperity  and  good  repute,  the  same  self-love  sprang  to  save 
him  by  such  means  as  seemed  necessary. 

The  first  duty,  then,  that  appealed  to  Mr.  Benson,  outside  of 
that  which  he  owed  to  his  religion,  was  that  of  taking  care  of 
himself.  He  justified  himself  in  this  by  the  fact  that  if  he  could 
take  care  of  himself,  he  could  take  care  of  all  whose  affairs  he 
held  in  his  hands.  His  work  was  therefore  very  simple.  How 
to  get  through  the  crisis  and  save  his  reputation  was  the  ques- 
tion which  covered  all  other  questions. 

He  was  already  conscious,  however,  as  has  been  intimated, 
that  a  freshet  had  occurred  in  the  principal  confluent  of  his  life, 
which  had  betrayed  itself  upon  the  surface  to  a  few  eyes  besides 
his  own.  He  knew  that  his  reputation  was  suffering  already. 
He  was  at  least  so  conscious  that  it  ought  to  suffer,  that  he  be- 
came painfully  alert  and  suspicious.  He  had  carried  through  all 
his  business  life  so  confident  a  feeling  and  so  confident  a  front, 
based  upon  conscious  fair  dealing  and  assured  popularity,  that 
a  suspicion  of  himself  made  him  suspicious  of  the  public.  He 
had  noticed,  first,  that  the  tide  of  private  deposits,  of  which  he 
had  been  the  recipient,  had  reached  its  flood.  Whether  this 
was  attributable  to  the  growing  poverty  of  the  people,  or  to  a 
general  subsidence  of  confidence  in  moneyed  men,  or  to  a  speciaT 


298  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

waning  of  faith  in  him,  he  could  not  tell,  but  he  suspected  the 
last. 

It  is  curious  how  keen  the  public  scent  of  private  difficulty 
is, — how  quickly  suspicion  gathers  around  a  man  who,  however 
faithfully  he  may  have  discharged  all  his  business  obligations, 
has  done  it  with  trouble  to  himself  and  fears  for  the  future- 
There  was  no  doubt  that,  for  some  reason,  the  public  confi- 
dence in  Mr.  Benson  was  waning.  His  affairs  had  been  quietly 
canvassed  in  business  circles,  and  wise  heads  had  been  shaken 
over  them.  Nothing  had  been  spoken  of  them  outside, — no 
whisper  of  warning  had  been  breathed  among  the  poor, — yet 
sharp  instincts  apprehended  the  tottering  of  his  strength,  and  a 
certain  indefinable  change  in  himself.  The  man  who  had  had 
a  courteous  word  for  everybody,  now  passed  his  best  friends  in 
the  street  without  knowing  them.  He  was  absorbed,  preoccu- 
pied. He  found  it  more  difficult  from  day  to  day  to  obtain  ac- 
commodations. Some  of  his  recent  depositors  called,  under 
various  excuses,  to  withdraw  their  loans.  Men  bowed  to  him 
in  the  street  in  a  different  manner  from  that  to  which  he 
had  been  accustomed.  Money-lenders  gave  him  short  greet- 
ings or  a  wide  berth. 

He  was  unspeakably  vexed  and  distressed  with  the  change, 
and  it  did  not  work  well  with  him.  It  maddened  him  and 
made  him  desperate;  yet  still  he  could  not  only  blame  their 
selfishness,  but  take  refuge  in  his  own  superior  motives.  These 
motives  hardened,  however,  from  day  to  day,  into  a  determina- 
tion to  save  himself  at  any  risk — almost  at  any  price. 

Did  he  mean  to  wrong  anybody  ?  No.  He  fully  intended 
to  pay  every  dollar  of  his  debts.  This,  at  least,  would  be 
necessary  to  save  his  reputation,  and  he  sincerely  desired  to  do 
this. 

It  was  in  this  mood  and  in  this  condition  that  Nicholas 
would  have  found  him  on  the  night  on  which  he  received  the 
letter  from  the  burglar  concerning  the  stolen  bonds,  had  he 
persisted  in  his  determination  to  call  upon  him  and  read  the 
letter  to  him.  At  that  moment  he  was  closeted  with  one  of 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  299 

his  largest  and  most  importunate  creditors — one  who,  on  the 
brink  of  failure,  was  telling  him  that  he  must  and  would  have 
his  money.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Benson  assured  him  that 
the  debt  could  not  be  paid  without  distressing  others,  and  in- 
volving a  ruinous  sacrifice  of  property.  Necessity  could  take 
no  counsel  of  generosity.  Ruin  was  not  in  the  mood  to  con- 
sider ruin ;  and  Mr.  Benson  was  obliged  to  submit  to  the  rule 
of  business  which  circumstances  had  compelled  him  to  enforce 
upon  others. 

So,  before  the  creditor  left  the  house  that  evening,  he  secured 
a  promise  from  Mr.  Benson  that  the  debt  should  be  paid  on  the 
following  day. 

This  was  the  hardest  emergency  that  Mr.  Benson  had  ever 
experienced.  He  had  made  a  desperate  promise,  under  des- 
perate pressure,  and  must  keep  it  or  go  to  protest,  and  acknowl- 
edge himself  beaten.  He  had  nothing  to  keep  his  promise 
with.  No  sale  of  property  could  be  made  in  the  brief  hours  at 
his  command.  He  could  not  borrow  on  the  securities  he  held, 
save  at  rates  that  would  disgrace  him  and  hasten  his  ruin. 

His  mind  trod  the  weary  round  of  possibilities  again  and 
again,  and  at  every  revolution  it  paused  before  the  safe  that 
held  the  stolen  bonds.  He  did  not  wish  to  touch  them.  Why 
had  he  held  them  ?  Why  had  he  not  placed  himself  beyond  the 
temptation  to  use  them?  Could  it  be  that  Providence  had 
withheld  his  hand  from  restoration  ?  Could  it  be  that  the  God 
he  had  prayed  to  so  earnestly  intended  that  these  bonds  should 
come  into  his  hands  for  temporary  use,  in  the  most  cruel  exi- 
gency of  his  life  ?  It  seemed  so.  He  could  see  no  other  way 
out  of  his  trouble.  There  were  the  bonds  lying  idly  in  his  safe. 
There  was  in  them  all  the  help  he  needed,  and  more.  They 
were  doing  good  to  nobody.  At  the  very  moment  he  con- 
templated theft,  his  heart  went  up  with  an  emotion  of  gratitude  ! 

The  devil  had  come  to  him  as  an  angel  of  light,  with  the 
blasphemous  message  that  Providence  was  dealing  with  him, — 
that  a  miracle  had  been  wrought  for  him, — that  a  man  who  held 
him  in  his  hands,  and  held  him  in  contempt,  had  been  made  un- 


300  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

willingly  tributary  to  his  safety.  The  devil  did  not  need  to  tell 
him  that  he  had  paid  for  the  bonds  a  certain  sum  of  money, 
that  he  had  taken  them  from  the  hands  of  a  robber,  that  he 
was  ready  to  give  them  up  to  any  man  who  could  prove  them 
to  be  his,  that  he  had  kept  them  safely  for  the  owner,  and  that 
he  only  wanted  a  temporary  use  of  them. 

What  should  he  do  ?  What  would  any  man  do  with  ruin 
staring  him  in  the  face,  the  means  of  avoiding  it  in  his  hands, 
and  a  message  more  than  half  believed  to  be  from  heaven  in 
his  heart,  bidding  him  use  the  means  ? 

Still,  if  Nicholas  had  told  him  of  his  letter,  the  message  from 
heaven  in  answer  to  prayer  would  not  have  come  to  Mr.  Ben- 
son. He  might  even  have  informed  Nicholas  of  his  possession 
of  the  bonds,  and  insisted  on  putting  them  into  his  hands. 
He  had  gradually  approached,  and  finally  reached,  a  determi- 
nation, and  found  his  heart  lighter  and  his  path  brighter.  Was 
this  heaven's  own  smile  of  approval  ?  It  seemed  to  be. 

But  here  another  difficulty  arose.  Where  should  he  use  the 
bonds  ?  He  found  that  however  divinely  sanctioned  his  use  of 
them  might  seem  to  be,  he  was  not  ready  to  use  them  in  the 
open  market.  He  could  not  place  them  where  he  could  not 
at  once  lay  his  hands  upon  them. 

So  he  was  shut  up  to  a  single  resort.  It  was  against  the  law 
for  an  officer  of  the  Poor  Man's  Savings  Bank  to  use  its  funds 
for  his  personal  purposes.  But  he  must  use  them  for  a  few 
days,  and  no  harm  could  come  to  the  bank,  with  such  security 
as  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  offer.  He  had  become  so  blinded 
and  benumbed  in  his  apprehensions,  that  he  did  not  see  that  hi? 
one  illegal  or  irregular  act  would  demoralize  every  officer  of 
the  bank  associated  with  him,  and  that  he  would  lose  all  power 
to  control  them.  He  did  not  see  that  every  man  of  them 
would  demand  a  loan  for  himself,  as  a  bribe  to  secrecy,  and 
that  he  would  by  his  act  inaugurate  a  confederacy  of  crime  that 
would  endanger  or  destroy  the  institution  in  which  he  had 
taken  so  much  pride. 

Before  noon  on  the  following  day  ~he  bonds  were  in  the  vault 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  301 

of  the  savings  bank,  Mr.  Benson's  creditor  was  paid,  and  he 
had  a  surplus  fund  on  hand  which  would  give  him  room  and 
leisure  to  work  for  the  redemption  of  his  pledged  securities. 

The  first  effect  was  great  mental  relief  to  Mr.  Benson.  The 
second  was  an  organized  demand,  on  the  part  of  the  other  offi- 
cers of  the  bank,  for  accommodations  for  themselves.  They 
gave  him  plainly  to  understand  that  they  were  in  as  great 
trouble  as  himself;  that  their  right  to  borrow  of  the  bank  was 
equal  with  his  own,  and  that  if  their  demand  was  not  acceded 
to  they  would  endeavor,  in  the  proper  quarters,  to  ascertain 
why  he  was  to  be  made  an  exception  to  the  rules. 

Mr.  Benson  was  in  their  hands.  Practically  he  was  under 
the  threat  of  exposure,  if  he  refused  to  honor  their  wishes. 
There  was  but  one  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  he  discovered  too 
late  that  the  devil,  who  had  assumed  the  semblance  and  the 
prerogatives  of  Providence,  had  led.  him  into  a  trap,  from 
which  there  was  no  way  of  escape.  He  saw  before  him  the 
ruin  of  the  bank.  He  saw  that  he  had  demoralized  his  own 
officers,  and  that  not  one  of  them  could  be  dismissed. 

Sometimes  the  whole  chain  of  events  which  had  led  him  into 
his  present  desperate  perplexities  was  unrolled  before  him. 
Oh  that  he  could  go  back  !  Oh  that  he  could  recall  the  first 
mistake,  the  initial  act,  of  his  supreme  selfishness,  which  had 
placed  him  on  this  declining  and  tortuous  road  ! 

He  prayed,  but  he  had  no  relief.  He  was  in  a  land  of 
shadows.  He  was  fighting  with  monsters.  The  heavens  were 
brass,  the  earth  was  iron.  His  Divinity  was  the  Virgin  of  the 
medieval  chamber  of  torture,  who  opened  her  thorny  arms  and 
pressed  him  to  a  breast  of  spikes,  that  quenched  his  breath  and 
drew  his  blaod  and  racked  him  with  insufferable  pain. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

IN    WHICH    BILL   SANDERS   GETS   HIS    HAND    "  ON  TO  A   BIBLE," 
AND    ASTONISHES    GLEZEN   AS   WELL   AS   HIS   CLIENT. 

IN  the  meantime,  Nicholas  had  taken  the  burglar's  letter  to 
Glezen's  office,  and  they  had  looked  over  it  together.  Nicholas 
had  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  the  note  was  from  the  man 
whom  he  had  chased  from  The  Crown  and  Crust — his  keeper 
on  the  night  of  the  Ottercliff  robbery — the  beggar  whom  he  had 
violently  ejected  from  his  house.  Every  circumstance  con- 
nected with  it  assured  its  genuineness,  but  whether  Bill  Sanders 
knew  where  the  bonds  were,  or  was  only  trying  to  secure  money 
for  information  which  he  did  not  possess,  was  a  question  that 
could  only  be  doubtfully  answered. 

Glezen  had  considerable  faith  in  the  genuineness  of  the  let- 
ter, but  none  at  all  in  the  author's  proposition.  He  had  hadj  a 
little  experience,  and  a  good  deal  of  observation,  in  such  cases, 
and  he  had  learned  that  very  little  dependence  was  to  be  placed 
upon  letters  of  that  character.  It  was  possible,  however,  that 
the  burglars  had  quarreled  over  their  booty,  and  that  Bill  San- 
ders would  be  ready  to  play  a  game  of  revenge,  if  he  could  be 
assured  of  his  own  safety. 

After  a  long  consultation,  Nicholas  left  the  letter  in  Glezen's 
possession,  with  the  permission  to  take  such  steps  with  regard 
to  it  as  might  seem  to  be  the  most  judicious. 

From  all  that  Glezen  could  learn  or  guess  about  Bill  San- 
ders, he  had  been  a  subordinate  in  the  crime — a  cat's  paw  in 
the  hands  of  abler  and  worse  men  ;  and  he  cared  a  good  deal 
more  about  getting  back  the  bonds  for  Nicholas,  than  he  did 
about  securing  the  person  of  such  a  man.  Besides,  a  man  who 
would  be  willing  to  act  as  a  tool  for  a  greater  rogue,  might  the 
more  easily  be  induced  to  act  as  his  own  tool.  So  he  sat  down 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  303 

and  carefully  wrote  a  reply  to  the  burglar's  letter,  telling  him 
that  the  matter  had  been  placed  in  his  hands,  and  proposing 
an  interview,  with  a  pledge  of  personal  safety. 

The  night  fixed  upon  for  the  interview  was  one  which  Nicho- 
las and  Cavendish  would  spend  at  "  The  Atheneum,"  so  that, 
without  exciting  suspicion,  or  being  under  the  danger  of  intru- 
sion, he  might  have  the  rogue  in  his  office  and  examine  him  at 
his  leisure. 

The  reply  to  his  note  reached  him  with  unexpected  prompt- 
ness, and,  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  his  proposition  was  ac- 
cepted. The  man  made  his  conditions  in  detail.  The  main 
point  seemed  to  be  personal  safety  during  the  visit.  He 
even  indulged  in  threats,  in  the  name  of  his  gang,  if  anything 
should  happen  to  him  contrary  to  the  construction  he  had 
placed  upon  Glezen's  letter,  and  the  conditions  named  in  his 
own. 

Glezen  was  in  his  office  at  nine  o'clock,  the  place  and  hour 
specified  in  his  own  letter,  though  he  had  but  little  faith  that 
the  visitor  he  had  invited  would  appear. 

The  clock  of  Trinity  had  hardly  completed  its  tale  of  the 
hour,  however,  when  he  heard  steps  slowly  ascending  the  stairs. 
They  paused  at  the  landing,  and  the  man  who  had  made  them 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  read  the  signs  on  the  various  doors.  At 
last  there  came  a  hesitating  knock,  which  Glezen  answered  in 
person. 

"  Is  this  Bill  Sanders  ?  "  inquired  Glezen,  opening  the  door 
upon  him. 

"  I'm  the  man  as  writ  the  letter,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  voice 
which  Nicholas,  had  he  been  present,  would  have  recognized 
unhesitatingly. 

"  Come  in  out  of  the  draught,"  said  Glezen. 

"Is  it  all  clear?" 

"Yes." 

«  Honor  bright  ?  " 

"  Without  the  shadow  of  a  stain,"  said  Glezen,  while  the 
man  glanced  into  his  quizzical  eves. 


304  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Bill  Sanders  stepped  inside,  and  looked  around  him,  as  the 
lawyer  turned  the  key  in  the  door. 

"  Be  you  a  jokin'  man  ?  "  inquired  Bill  Sanders. 

Glezen  laughed,  and  said  : 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  reckoned  you  was  by  what  you  said,  and  how  you 
looked,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  am  serious  enough  for  our  business,"  said  Glezen. 

"I  always  trust  a  jokin'  man,"  said  Bill,  flatteringly,  in  his 
husky  voice.  "  '  Does  he  joke  ? '  says  I.  '  That  settles  it. 
There's  a  good  spot  in  'im,'  says  I.  'What  he  says  he'll  do, 
he  will  do.  When  he  says  he'll  pertect  ye,  he'll  do  it.  When 
he  says  he'll  plank  down  money,  he'll  plank  down  money,  and 
he  won't  stand  on  small  change.'  That's  what  I  says." 

Bill  took  the  chair  that  was  offered  him,  tucking  his  hat  un- 
der his  left  arm,  as  if  that  disposition  of  it  were  an  act  of  cour- 
tesy toward  his  host.  He  wore  a  cunning,  deprecative,  defer- 
ential air,  most  unlike  the  ordinary  bully,  and  a  pale,  creamy 
smile,  under  which  it  was  difficult  to  tell  whether  the  milk  was 
sweet  or  sour. 

"  I  know  ye  mean  to  deal  squar1,"  said  Bill,  to  break  the  un- 
comfortable silence  in  which  Glezen  was  regarding  him.  "  I 
knowed  it  as  quick  as  I  see  ye  leave  the  key  in  the  door." 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,  Bill,"  said  Glezen,  at  length  ; 
"  and  before  you  start,  I  want  you  to  hear  a  little  that  I  have 
to  say.  You  needn't  tell  me  your  real  name,  because  you'll  lie 
about  it,  and  that  will  be  a  bad  beginning.  What  I  want  is  the 
truth.  I  have  promised  you  that  you  shall  come  and  go  this 
time  in  safety,  and  I  will  keep  my  promise ;  but  you  must 
remember  that  I  have  promised  nothing  beyond  this  evening. 
If  you  tell  me  the  truth,  I  can  probably  save  you  from  harm. 
If  you  lie  to  me,  I  shall  feel  at  perfect  liberty  to  do  anything 
that  seems  desirable.  You  are  undoubtedly  one  of  the  robbers 
of  my  friend  Minturn's  bonds.  Now  what  do  you  know  about 
them?" 

me  !     Let  me  git  my  hand  onto  a  Bible/'  said  Bill. 


NICHOLAS  M1NTURN.  305 

"  No,  I  don't  want  you  to  swear,"  said  Glezen.  "  I'll  take 
your  word  of  honor,  if  such  a  man  as  you  has  any  honor." 

"  Then  I'll  swear  myself,"  said  Bill.     "  May  God " 

"Stop!"  said  Glezen.  "Not;  another  word.  If  you  wish 
to  have  me  believe  you,  drop  your  oaths." 

Bill's  programme  for  the  evening  was  broken  up,  and  it  both- 
ered him.  He  had  actually  come  to  tell  the  truth ;  he  had 
been  confirmed  in  his  determination  to  tell  it  by  Glezen' s  words ; 
but  he  somehow  thought  it  would  be  truer  if  he  could  "  git  his 
hand  onto  a  Bible." 

"  Begin,"  said  Glezen. 

"  There  was  three  men  as  went  a  foragm',"  said  Bill  San- 
ders,— "as  went  a  foragin'  up  the  river.  Two  of 'em  was  old 
hands,  as  was  used  to  large  business,  and  one  of 'em  was  a 
new  hand,  as  was  used  to  small  business.  They  cracked  a 
house  as  wasn't  fur  from  the  river,  and  got  away  with  a  stack 
o'  plunder,  an'  nobody  hurt.  Lawyer,  stick  a  pin  in  that — no- 
body was  hurt.  A  kid  was  skewered  temperary,  but  there 
wasn't  no  murder, — a  kid  as  had  no  good  will  a'  owin'  to  'im, 
but  there  wasn't  no  harm  done." 

"  No,"  said  Glezen,  impatiently,  "you  only  bound  and  gagged 
him.  Go  on.  I've  heard  all  this  before." 

"As  I  was  a  sayin',"  pursued  the  narrator,  "the  men  got 
away  with  a  stack  o'  plunder — some  on  it  silver,  and  some  on 
it  bonds.  Now,  s'pose  we  call  the  head  man  Captain  Hank. 
That  wasn't  his  name,  but  suppose  we  call  it  Captain  Hank, 
to  make  it  easy.  Captain  Hank  says  :  '  Boys,  we'll  divide  the 
silver,  but  I'll  keep  the  bonds,  an'  sell  'em,  when,  the  time 
comes.  They  must  be  kept  together,  and  I'm  goin'  to  keep 
'em,'  says  'e,  'an'  when  I  git  red  of 'em,  then  we'll  divide  squar',' 
says  'e.  Well,  the  men  was  free-spendin',  and  they  run  through 
the  silver  afore  they  knowed  it,  and  then  Captain  Hank  went 
for  to  raise  the  needful  on  the  bonds." 

Up  to  this  point,  Glezen  had  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  half 
shut  eyes,  listening  to  the  old  story,  but  now  he  opened  them 
and  became  alert. 


306  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Did  he  get  any  money  on  them  ?  "  inquired  Glezen. 

"  I'm  a  comin'  to  it,  careful,"  said  Bill.  "  Two  of  the  fellers 
waited  for  Captain  Hank,  an'  they  waited  till  he  come  back, 
the  wust  beat  man  you  ever  see.  He  went  to  a  high  party  as 
deals  extensive,  and  the  high  party  knowed  about  the  bonds, 
an'  come  down  on  'im  with  a  barker  an"  a  telegraph,  an'  was 
too  many  for  'im.  Leastways,  that's  Captain  Hank's  story. 
Captain  Hank  gave  both  of  his  pardners  an  X,  an'  that's  all 
they  ever  see  of  the  bonds,  an'  then  he  broke  with  'em.  An' 
here  you  sets  an'  asks  me  if  he  got  money  on  'em.  In  course 
he  got  money  on  'em,  an'  he  got  more'n  he  give  account  fer. 
That's  what's  the  matter.  You  don't  s'pose  I'd  come  here  an* 
^ive  him  up  if  he'd  dealt  fair,  do  ye  ?" 

"Who's  the  high  party  as  deals  extensive?"  inquired  Glezen, 
adopting  a  phrase  which  Bill  seemed  to  have  used  with  con- 
siderable pride. 

"  He's  a  party  as  gobbled  the  whole  pile,  an"  we've  watched 
the  papers  to  see  if  the  bonds  ever  got  back  to  the  man  as 
owns  'em,  but  the  old  cock  hasn't  peeped.  He's  got  'em  now. 
I've  seen  'im  sence  in  the  street,  and  butter  wouldn't  melt  in 'is 
mouth." 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me  his  name,"  said  Glezen. 

Bill  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  Glezen,  and  began  to  tremble 
and  grow  white-lipped.  His  voice  became  more  husky,  and 
came  down  to  a  wheezy  whisper,  as  he  said  : 

"Lawyer,  you  won't  believe  me.  Swear  me  as  a  pertickler 
favor.  Let  me  git  my  hand  onto  a  Bible." 

Glezen  <  was  impressed  with  the  man's  sincerity.  He  was 
evidently  under  great  excitement,  and  felt  that  the  secret  he 
had  determined  to  divulge  would  be  regarded  as  incredible. 
Knowing  that  his  word  was  valueless,  he  seemed  to  feel  that  an 
auxiliary  oath  might  stiffen  it  for  use. 

"I  don't  want  any  oaths,"  exclaimed  Glezen,  impatiently. 
"If  your  word  isn't  good  for  anything,  your  oath  isn't  good  for 
anything.  Out  with  it." 

"  But  you  wont  believe  it,"  said  BUlj 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  307 

"  You  don't  believe  it  yourself,  perhaps." 

"  I  do.     I  know  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  went  with  'im  to  the  door !  " 

Bill  fell  back  in  his  chair,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  What  door  ?     Whose  door  ?  " 

"  Old  Benson's  !  "  in  a  whisper. 

It  was  Glezen's  time  to  be  excited  now. 

"  I  have  a  good  mind  to  tell  you  that  you  lie,  and  to  kick 
you  out  of  my  office,"  said  he. 

"  I  knowed  you  wouldn't  believe  it,"  said  Bill,  deprecatingly. 
"  I  wanted  to  git  my  hand  onto  a  Bible,  and  you  wouldn't  let 
me." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Glezen,  trembling  with  excitement,  "  you 
shall  have  your  hand  on  the  Bible.  Here  it  is.  Stand  up,  and 
put  your  hand  on  it." 

The  rogue  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  placed  his  hand  boldly 
on  the  book.  "I'm  ready,"  said  he. 

"  You  solemnly  swear,  that  you  honestly  and  firmly  believe, 
that  a  man  whom  you  know  as  Captain  Hank,  and  as  the  robber 
who  stole  a  package  of  bonds  from  Nicholas  Minturn  at  Otter- 
cliff,  disposed  of  those  bonds  to,  or  had  them  taken  from  him 
by,  Benjamin  Benson,  in  this  city,  God  Almighty  being  your 
witness,  and  your  avenger  if  you  swear  falsely." 

Glezen  administered  the  oath  with  profound  solemnity. 

"  I  do,"  said  Bill,  "  an'  that's  what  I  call  business.  You 
might  just  as  well  have  come  to  it  afore,  an'  it  wasn't  my  fault 
that  you  didn't." 

"  Now,  if  you  have  lied  to  me,  Bill  Sanders,  I'll  make  this 
place  too  hot  to  hold  you." 

"  If  I've  lied  to  you,  I  hope  I'll  go  to  a  hotter  place  than 
you  can  make  this  into,"  said  Bill,  firmly. 

"  Don't  tell  this  to  anybody  else,"  said  Glezen.  "  If  it's 
true,  I'll  take  care  of  the  matter.  If  it  is  false,  as  it  probably 
is,  whatever  your  belief  may  be,  it  will  be  a  cruel  thing  against 
an  innocent  man  to  say  anything  about  it  Captain  Hank  has 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

probably  lied  to  you.  He  may  have  gone  to  Mr.  Benson  to 
sell  the  bonds,  but  he  probably  did  not  sell  them.  And  now," 
said  Glezen,  rising,  "I  want  nothing  more  of  you  to-night." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  give  me  ?  "  inquired  Bill. 

''  For  what  you've  told  me,  nothing,"  said  Glezen,  "  until  1 
am  convinced  that  you  have  told  me  the  truth.  For  your 

trouble  in  coming  here  to-night,  this ,"  and  he  handed  him 

a  bank-note  of  a  small  denomination. 

Bill  was  disappointed. 

"  I'll  make  it  right,  if  I  am  convinced  that  you  have  not 
tried  to  deceive  me.  There's  no  use  in  talking  about  the  mat- 
ter. No  words,  Bill,  no  words  !  Good  night !  "  and  he  almost 
crowded  him  out  of  the  door  of  his  office,  and  locked  himself 
in.  Passing  swiftly  to  his  window,  he  saw  his  visitor  cross 
Broadway,  and  disappear  down  one  of  the  side  streets. 

It  was  already  late,  but  he  knew,  with  this  secret  in  his  pos- 
session, he  could  not  sleep.  He  paced  his  room  for  a  few 
minutes,  then,  seized  with  a  sudden  determination,  he  hurried 
on  his  overcoat  and  hat,  locked  his  office,  ran  down-stairs,  and 
hailing  and  leaping  into  a  passing  cab,  ordered  the  driver  to 
take  him  to  the  rooms  of  Nicholas,  and  not  to  lose  time  on  the 
way. 

The  revelations  of  the  robber  had  profoundly  impressed  him, 
however  incredulously  he  may  have  appeared  to  receive  them. 
He  was  certainly  more  than  half  convinced  that  Bill  Sanders 
believed  the  statement  he  had  sworn  to.  If  he  had  not  been 
measurably  convinced  of  this,  he  would  not  have  been  so  much 
excited. 

He  found  himself  sitting  lightly  on  his  seat,  and  leaning  for- 
ward, with  the  strange,  involuntary  fancy  that  he  was  lightening 
the  burden  of  the  horse,  or  imparting  something  of  the  haste 
he  felt  to  the  brute  that  dragged  him.  Every  muscle  was 
tense,  and,  at  last,  became  so  painful  that  he  was  obliged  to 
lean  back  for  rest.  Although  the  night  was  cold,  the  cab 
seemed  close,  and  he  put  down  the  windows,  that  he  might 
catch  the  sharp  air  on  his  feverish  cheeks.  Then  came  a  flood 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  309 

of  doubts  whether  he  had  a  right  to  plant  suspicions  in  the 
mind  of  Nicholas,  which,  in  all  probability,  were  groundless. 
He  had  a  dozen  impulses  to  stop  the  driver  and  walk  back  to 
his  own  rooms. 

But  the  cab  rolled  on  over  the  stony  streets,  past  the  theatres 
as  they  were  disgorging  themselves,  past  the  saloons  ablaze 
with  light,  past  the  long  rows  of  dark  warehouses,  and  the  un- 
ending lines  of  flickering  street-lamps,  and  he  held  to  his  seat 
as  if  by  some  fatal  necessity.  Crowded  and  violently  exercised 
as  his  mind  had  been,  he  was  at  his  destination  before  he  could 
realize  that  the  long  distance  had  been  measured.  The  cab- 
man was  royally  paid  for  his  service  and  dismissed  ;  but  even 
then  Glezen  hesitated. 

In  vain.  He  could  not  go  away.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  on 
reaching  the  room  he  sought  he  found  Nicholas  preparing  to 
retire  for  the  night. 

"  What !  This  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Nicholas. 

"  Even  so." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?     You  are  pale.     Are  you  ill  ?" 

"I  have  heard  the  devil's  own  story  to-night,"  said  Glezen, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  "  but  I  am  not  ill, — only  a  little  excited. 
Put  on  your  coat,  Nicholas.  We  must  have  a  talk.  I  don't 
know  that  I  ought  to  tell  you  this  story,  but  it's  in  me,  and  I 
don't  seem  to  be  able  to  hold  it." 

Nicholas  sat  down  near  his  friend,  very  much  puzzled,  and 
heard  in  profound  amazement  every  incident  of  the  interview 
that  had  occurred  at  Glezen's  office. 

"Now  mark  you,  Nicholas,"  said  Glezen,  interrupting  the 
latter  in  his  attempt  to  speak,  "  I  give  but  little  credence  to 
this  story.  On  one  side  of  it  there  is  a  set  of  desperate  rogues 
— men  known  to  be  thieves — men  who  would  perjure  their  souls 
for  money  just  as  readily  as  they  would  break  into  a  house,  or 
cut  a  throat,  if  they  had  occasion  for  violence.  On  the  other, 
there  is  a  man  more  conspicuous  for  his  probity  than  for  any- 
thing else — with  all  the  dissuasives  against  crooked  courses  that 
can  be  gathered  round  a  man,  or  gathered  into  him.  It  is  not 


310  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

fair  to  pit  one  of  these  parties  against  the  other,  even  befoi  e  the 
bar  of  one's  private  judgment.  We  must  keep  this  to  ourselves. 
I  am  glad  to  have  a  partner  in  the  possession  of  the  story,  be 
cause  it  is  an  ugly  thing  for  one  man  to  carry,  but  it  can- 
not be  true.  You  know  it  cannot  be  true." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Nicholas.  "  You  lawyers  are 
always  after  evidence  that  will  be  good  in  a  court  of  justice. 
There  are  circumstances  in  my  mind  that  have  fitted  themselves 
into,  and  illuminated  every  passage  of  the  story.  I  shall  sur- 
prise you  if  I  say  that  I  not  only  believe  that  this  story  is  true, 
but  that  my  belief  amounts  almost  to  knowledge." 

"  You  do  indeed  surprise  me,"  said  Glezen.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"I  know  the  very  night  on  which  the  transaction  took 
place,"  said  Nicholas.  "  Why,  the  man  almost  revealed  him- 
self. The  secret  was  as  hard  for  him  to  hold  as  it  has  been  for 
you ;  and  if  he  had  had  no  greater  motive  for  keeping  it  than 
you  have  had,  I  should  have  received  it  then.  My  interview 
with  him  came  next  after  that  of  Captain  Hank.  He  was  pale 
and  excited  when  I  entered.  He  questioned  me  about  the 
bonds.  He  told  me  he  believed,  or  felt,  somehow,  that  I 
should  get  them  again.  He  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  had 
just  had  a  call  from  a  man  who  was  as  likely  to  have  been  the 
robber  as  any  man  he  had  ever  seen.  I  see  it  all.  He 
had  my  bonds  in  his  safe  at  that  moment.  He  asked  me  if  1 
had  yet  discovered  the  record  of  the  numbers,  and  I  can  see 
now — I  saw  it  then,  without  understanding  it — his  look  of 
satisfaction  when  I  answered  in  the  negative.  It's  true, 
Glezen  ;  it's  true  !  I  see  it  more  plainly  every  moment,  as 
our  conversation  comes  back  to  me.  I  see  the  strange 
malignity  with  which  he  undertook  to  play  upon  my  hopes, 
and  the  blinds  which  he  wove  before  my  eyes.  I  tell  you  it's 
true." 

Nicholas  grew  more  nervous  and  emphatic  as  he  talked. 
Every  word  and  circumstance  of  the  interview  which  he  re- 
called fitted  so  naturally  into,  or  grew  out  of,  the  consciousness 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  311 

of  guilt  on  Mr.  Benson's  part,  that  he  could  find  no  place  for 
them  in  any  substituted  theory. 

Then  he  rose  and  walked  the  room  in  wild  excitement.  He 
clenched  his  hands  as  if  he  were  in  pain.  Then  gesticulating 
furiously  he  said : 

"  I  see  it !    I  see  it !     I  know  it  is  true  !  " 

"  You  forget,  Nicholas,  that  Benson  is  not  a  fool,"  said  Gle- 
zen.  "  He  couldn't  afford  to  risk  his  reputation  for  the  money.' 

"  He  doesn't  love  me,  Glezen." 

"  Very  well,  he  cannot  afford  to  risk  his  position  for  the  grati- 
fication of  a  private  enmity.  You  must  give  me  a  better 
reason  than  this." 

"  Wouldn't  he  commit  crime  for  the  sake  of  saving  his  posi- 
tion ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"My  boy,"  said  Glezen,  "that's  deeper  down  into  motives 
than  I've  been.  If  he  is  in  any  such  strait  as  that,  it  is  time 
that  our  friend,  Miss  Larkin,  were  placed  on  her  guard." 

"  She  shall  be  placed  on  her  guard  the  next  time  I  see  her. 
If  he  can  steal  from  me,  he  can  defraud  her." 

The  excitement  of  Nicholas  had  had  the  effect  to  cool  Gle- 
zen, and  the  latter  at  last  said  quietly  : 

"  Well,  Nicholas,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  give  Mr.  Benson  an  opportunity  to  deny  the 
story." 

"  You  cannot  do  that,  you  know." 

"  I  can  do  it,  and  I  will  do  it." 

"  You  will  only  get  yourself  into  difficulty." 

•"  What  do  I  care  about  that  ?  I  have  had  him  on  his  knees 
more  than  once,  and  he  has  more  than  one  reason  to  be  afraid 
of  me.  You  talk  about  keeping  this  matter  to  ourselves.  I 
cannot  carry  it,  even  with  your  help.  Why,  the  man  has 
almost  shaken  my  bonds  in  my  face.  He  has  gloated  over 
their  possession  in  my  presence.  Leave  me  alone.  I  assume 
all  the  responsibility." 

Glezen  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  Nicholas  in  his 
excited  and  confident  mood,  and  securing  a  promise  from  him 


3it  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

that  he  would  not  move  in  the  affair  until  further  consultation, 
bade  him  good  night  and  sought  his  lodgings. 

He  left  his  friend  to  a  night  of  sleeplessness.  A  possible 
danger  to  Miss  Larkin  had  been  opened  to  the  latter  in  the 
conversation.  It  assumed  the  front  of  reality,  and  he  could 
not  put  it  out  of  his  mind.  Any  selfish  consideration  was  noth- 
ing compared  with  his  sympathy  for  her,  and  the  motive  that 
sprang  within  him  to  shield  and  defend  her.  He  would  warn 
her  of  her  danger.  She  was  a  lamb  in  the  den  of  a  wolf,  and 
he  would  be  her  protector.  He  tossed  all  night,  and  went 
through  every  imaginable  encounter  and  conflict  with  his  foe, 
but  rose  in  the  morning  with  his  purpose  unshaken. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN    WHICH    MISS    LARKIN    ESCAPES    ANOTHER    DANGER    BY   THB 

HELP   OF   NICHOLAS,    WHO    FINDS    HER   GUARDIAN 

LESS    MANAGEABLE   THAN    FORMERLY. 

THE  last  leap  of  Mr.  Benson  toward  the  darkness  was  a  long 
one,  and  he  had  realized  that  there  was  a  great  difference 
between  trying  to  save  himself  from  falling  and  endeavoring  to 
defend  himself  after  having  fallen.  The  passage  downward  was 
marked  by  frantic  efforts  to  catch  at  crags  and  jutting  trees,  by 
spasmodic  hopes  and  fears,  by  wild  prayers  and  exclamations, 
but  he  was  at  the  bottom,  and  found  the  ground  unexpectedly 
firm.  As  a  man  in  a  nightmare  falls  from  some  beetling  cliff, 
and,  with  the  very  grasp  of  death  at  his  heart,  plunges  toward  the 
profound,  and  alights,  in  breathless  surprise,  like  a  feather,  and 
without  a  conscious  wound, — so  had  Mr.  Benson  fallen.  He 
was  half  paralyzed  with  fear  at  first,  but  he  felt  the  firm  earth 
under  him,  and  it  was  actually  pleasant  to  him  to  know  that  he 
could  fall  no  farther.  Whatever  he  had  to  do  could  be  done  at 
that  level.  There  was  nothing  worse  to  be  done  than  he  had 
already  accomplished.  He  could  stand  there  and  fight  for  his 
life  with  such  weapons  as  might  be  necessary  for  his  purpose. 

When  he  arrived  there  and  realized  his  position,  and  saw  how 
much  respectable  company  there  was  around  him,  he  was 
strangely  content.  He  did  not  understand  it.  It  was  con- 
science— already  wounded  and  lame — that  made  the  outcry  in 
his  long  descent.  It  was  conscience  that  inspired  him  to  catch 
here  and  there  at  the  feeble  stays  scattered  down  his  headlong 
progress.  It  was  conscience  that  had  filled  him  with  fear  and 
pain ;  but  conscience,  unknown  to  him,  had  perished  with  the 
fall ;  and  he  was  left  alone  with  his  pride  and  his  blind  sense  of 
H 


3i4  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

duty  toward  religious  things,  unmindful  that  the  divine  creature 
and  the  divine  voice  within  him  were  dead. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done,  after  he  had  paid  his  creditor  with 
the  money  secured  by  the  hypothecation  of  bonds  that  did  not 
belong  to  him,  was  to  raise  money  for  their  redemption  at  the 
earliest  moment.  To  do  this,  he  would  be  obliged  to  sell 
property  at  any  sacrifice,  or  obtain  a  loan.  His  own  property, 
acquired  during  his  prosperous  and  speculative  days,  was  so 
heavily  mortgaged  that  he  found  it  a  hopeless  resource.  He 
could  not  deal  with  men,  because  they  knew  too  much  for  him. 
He  did  not  like  to  go  to  Miss  Larkin,  because  she  had  lost  faith 
in  him,  and  had  humbled  him,  but  he  seemed  to  be  driven  to 
her  for  help.  He  had  made  her  investments  carefully,  and  she 
was  comparatively  safe.  The  interest  on  some  of  these  had 
been  defaulted,  and  they  were  at  his  mercy. 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  conclude  that  his  most  hopeful 
way  of  securing  his  grand  object  was  in  obtaining  a  loan  from 
her.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  make  up  a  schedule  of 
her  possessions,  and  a  statement  of  their  condition,  in  accord- 
ance with  her  wish,  that  had  been  so  frequently  and  urgently 
expressed.  With  these  in  his  hands,  he  called  upon  her  one 
morning,  and,  in  his  calm  and  confidential  way,  went  over  the 
whole  matter  with  her,  and  secured  her  hearty  thanks  for  the 
service. 

"  You  are  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  with  a  sigh,  "  but  I  am 
all  wrong.  I  ought  not  to  hide  from  you  the  fact  that  I  am  in 
the  most  urgent  distress.  I  am  threatened  with  bankruptcy, 
and  my  family  with  beggary.  I  tell  you,  in  confidence,  that  I 
am  so  pressed  that  I  do  not  know  which  way  to  turn  for  relief. 
If  I  could  raise  money  on  my  own  property  until  times  change 
— and  times  always  do  change — I  could  carry  through  every- 
thing, but,  as  it  is,  I  see  nothing  but  ruin  before  me.  I  have  so 
many  widows  and  orphans  depending  upon  me, — I  shall  carry 
down  with  me  so  many  livings  and  so  many  hopes — I  shall  be 
obliged  to  surrender  a  reputation  so  precious  to  myself — that 
I  might  well  choose  death  as  a  happy  alternative." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  315 

Mr.  Benson's  voice  trembled  as  lie  said  all  this,  looking  sadly 
out  of  the  window, — for  he  could  not  meet  Miss  Larkin's  ques- 
tioning eyes, — and  at  the  close  of  his  revelation  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  handkerchief. 

"  Is  it  so  bad  as  this  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Larkin,  in  genuine 
sympathy. 

"  My  child,  it  is  worse  that  I  can  tell  you,"  replied  Mr. 
Ben-son.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  said  all  this  to 
you.  You  have  troubles  enough  to  bear  without  any  bur- 
dens of  mine ;  but  I  get  weary,  sometimes,  of  carrying  my 
load  alone." 

Miss  Larkin  was  much  distressed.  She  had  no  doubt  that 
her  guardian  was  in  great  trouble.  Her  heart  sprang  up  with  an 
impulse  to  help  him,  but  with  her  knowledge  of  the  man,  and  her 
keen  instincts,  there  was  something  about  the  whole  perform- 
ance that  she  apprehended  as  a  trick.  He  had  never  ap- 
proached her  with  any  confidences  before.  He  had  steadily 
shunned  her  and  refused  compliance  with  what  had  been  her 
most  strenuous  wish.  She  knew  him  to  be  profoundly  selfish, 
and  while  it  was  hard  for  her  to  believe  that  he  would  wrong 
her  deliberately,  it  was  quite  as  hard  for  her  to  doubt  that  he 
had  come  to  her  with  a  selfish  purpose. 

In  truth,  the  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  plainly  she  saw 
that  Mr.  Benson  had  been  playing  upon  her  sympathies  in 
order  to  draw  from  her  a  voluntary  offer  of  assistance.  He 
was  sitting  and  waiting  for  this  offer,  in  painful  but  earnest  ex- 
pectancy. His  nature  was  a  strong  one,  and  it  wrought  upon 
her  quick  sensibilities  with  a  power  that  almost  determined  her 
to  lay  her  fortune  at  his  feet  and  risk  the  consequences.  How 
could  she  gain  time?  How  could  she  fight  the  approaching 
fatal  determination? 

Then  there  came  to  her  aid  an  opposing  tide  of  remem- 
brances. 

"  Mr.  Benson,"  she  said,  reddening,  "  do  you  know  that  you 
have  treated  me  very  badly  ?  " 

"  My  child,  I  confess  it.     Do  not  upbraid  me.     I  have  had 


3i<S  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

great  trials  to  carry,  and  until  this  hour  I  have  tried  to  hide  them 
from  you,  and  spare  you  pain." 

"  Do  you  remember  that  I  owe  you  nothing  ? — that  for 
every  morsel  of  food  I  have  eaten,  and  every  service  you  have 
rendered  me  you  have  been  royally  paid  ? — that  you  have  almost 
lived  upon  me  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  put  me  these  questions  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Ben- 
son, roused  into  a  moment  of  petulant  anger. 

"  Because,  as  nearly  as  I  can  apprehend  the  object  of  your 
visit,  you  have  forsaken  the  ordinary  ways  of  a  business  man, 
and  come  to  a  girl  who  would  be  utterly  helpless  but  for  what 
she  possesses,  to  obtain  her  aid — to  get  her  voluntary  offer  of 
money.  If  I  felt  under  the  slightest  obligation  to  you — if  I 
could  trust  you — if  you  had  been  an  affectionate  father,  or  even 
friend  to  me — I  would  give  half  my  fortune  to  save  you." 

Mr.  Benson's  plan  was  not  prospering,  and  he  saw  that  he 
should  be  obliged  to  change  his  tactics. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  "  I  came  here  relying  upon  your  forgive- 
ness— upon  your  generosity.  I  have  never  dreamed  that  you 
could  harbor  a  spirit  of  revenge.  I  thought  it  would  be 
sweeter  to  you  to  offer  the  help  I  need  than  to  grant  a  formal 
request.  But  I  must  have  the  money.  I  must  have  it  soon ; 
and  you  compel  me  to  put  the  responsibility  for  my  future  upon 
yourself.  You  can  save  me,  or  you  can  ruin  me.  You  can 
save  or  ruin  my  poor  family.  My  fate — their  fate — is  in  your 
hands.  Circumstances  over  which  I  now  have  no  more  control 
than  I  have  over  the  waters  of  the  sea,  force  me  to  put  the 
awful  responsibility  on  your  shoulders.  Shall  I  die  or  live  ? 
Shall  a  hundred  widows  and  orphans  curse  me  to  the  last  day 
of  their  miserable  lives,  or  bless  me  and  my  memory  ?  The 
decision  is  with  you." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Benson  !  "  almost  screamed  Miss  Larkin.  "  Must 
you  be  so  cruel  ?  Horrible  !  Horrible !  " 

She  rose  upon  her  sofa,  sitting  upright,  staring  wildly  into 
his  eyes.  Then  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying,  and  fell  back  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  pillow. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  317 

Mr.  Benson  sat  and  coolly  watched  her.  He  had  made  an 
impression.  After  her  sobs  had  begun  to  die  away,  he  said  : 

"  My  child,  I  have  told  you  the  simple  truth.  In  the  stress 
of  my  trouble  I  do  not  see  how  I  could  have  said  less." 

"Then  you  must  give  me  time  to  think  about  it,"  said  Miss 
Larkin. 

"  Unhappily,"  responded  Mr.  Benson,  with  a  firm,  dogged 
voice,  "  I  can  do  no  such  thing.  My  needs  are  desperate— • 
this  day,  this  hour,  this  moment." 

Miss  Larkin,  during  all  this  interview,  had  held  in  her  hand 
a  note.  It  had  been  read,  but  it  had  been  unconsciously 
crumpled  in  her  hands  and  wet  with  her  tears.  It  was  from 
Nicholas,  saying,  in  a  few  words,  that  he  would  call  upon  her 
during  the  morning  on  a  matter  of  business.  Why  did  he  not 
come  and  interrupt  this  awful  scene  ?  Whither  should  she 
turn  for  help  ? 

"  I  must  have  time  to  think — two  hours — one  hour,"  she  said. 

"  Grace,  this  is  a  very  simple  question,  and  one  which  no 
person,  whether  friend  or  enemy  of  mine,  can  help  you  to 
answer.  Besides,  it  is  a  matter  that  is  not  to  be  bruited.  The 
question  simply  is  whether  you  are  willing,  on  security  that  I 
believe  to  be  good,  to  lend  me  the  money  that  will  carry  me 
over  to  a  time  of  prosperity.  If  you  will  not  lend  it,  I  shall  be 
a  hopeless  bankrupt  within  ten  days.  If  you  will,  I  firmly  be- 
live  that  I  can  reimburse  every  dollar  to  you  and  every  person 
I  owe." 

"  Go  to  your  library  ten  minutes,  and  let  me  think  of  it," 
said  the  distressed  girl. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  looking  at  his  watch  as  he 
left  the  room.  "  In  ten  minutes  I  will  return." 

Miss  Larkin  kissed  the  note  she  held  in  her  hands,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Oh  my  friend  !  my  friend  !  why  don't  you  come  ?  " 

But  the  ten  minutes  passed  away  in  a  tumult  of  apprehension 
and  expectation,  and  then  Mr.  Benson  returned,  with  a  pen  and 
ink  in  one  hand,  and  written  documents  in  the  other. 


3i8  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  I'm  sure  of  your  conclusion.  A 
nature  like  yours  can  possibly  come  to  but  one." 

"But  I  ought  to  ask  counsel,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  appealingly. 
"  You  cannot  be  my  counsel  in  this  matter,  you  know.  You 
are  personally  interested  in  it.  You  are  so  much  interested  in 
it  that  your  advice  is  good  for  nothing." 

"  Will  you  sign  these  documents,  my  child  ?  " 

"What  are  they?" 

"  They  are  a  power  of  attorney  for  selling  property,  and  a 
pledge  to  me  that  you  will  lend  me  the  proceeds.  The  deeds 
will  be  brought  for  your  signature  in  good  time.  The  pledge 
I  propose  to  use  to  get  extensions  with,  until  I  get  hold  of  the 
money." 

Mr.  Benson  moved  a  table  to  the  side  of  his  ward,  placing 
the  papers  before  her,  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink,  and  without 
looking  into  her  face,  tried  to  place  the  pen  in  her  hand.  She 
did  not  take  the  pen,  and  when  his  hard  eyes  sought  her  face 
she  was  in  a  fainting  fit,  and  the  crumpled  note  had  fallen  in 
her  lap. 

He  first  grasped  and  opened  the  note.  The  moment  his  eye 
apprehended  its  contents,  he  understood  her  hesitation.  Crum- 
pling the  note  again,  and  restoring  it,  he  rose,  without  calling 
tor  assistance,  and,  sprinkling  water  in  her  face,  brought  her 
back  to  consciousness. 

"  Here  is  the  pen,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sorry  you 
should  permit  yourself  to  be  overcome  by  so  insignificant  a 
matter." 

She  took  the  pen  in  her  trembling  hand,  and  then  she  heard 
the  door-bell  ring. 

"  Now  1  Before  interruption  ! "  sharply  exclaimed  Mr.  Ben- 
ton. 

The  servant  knocked  at  the  Joor,  partly  opened  it,  and  an- 
nounced Mr.  Mintirn. 

Not  a  word  was  said. 

"  Shall  I  ask  him  to  come  up  ?  "  inquired  the  servant 

"  No  ! "  said  Mr.  Benson,  spitefully. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  319 

"Yes  !  oh  yes  !"  half  screamed  Miss  Larkin. 

Mr.  Benson  was  so  angry  that  he  could  have  smitten  her 
upon  the  mouth,  if  he  had  dared  to  do  the  dastardly  deed  with 
retribution  so  close  at  hand. 

Nicholas  was  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  had  overheard 
every  word.  His  quick  apprehension  detected  the  tone  of  dis- 
tress in  Miss  Larkin's  voice,  and  he  did  not  wait  for  the  ser- 
vant's return,  but  mounted  the  stairs  in  a  breath,  and  presented 
himself  at  the  open  door.  Miss  Larkin  gave  a  cry  of  joy,  and 
sank  back  into  another  swoon. 

The  young  man  and  the  old  man  bowed  stiffly  to  each  other, 
Mr.  Benson  saying  quietly  : 

"  Our  friend  does  not  seem  to  be  quite  well  this  morning. 
Perhaps  you  had  better  call  at  some  other  time." 

Without  saying  a  word,  Nicholas  stepped  to  Miss  Larkin's 
side  and  rang  her  bell.  It  sounded  the  knell  of  Mr.  Benson's 
purposes  and  expectations,  for,  in  a  moment,  Miss  Bruce  ap- 
peared, and  entered,  with  profound  alarm,  upon  her  ministries 
of  restoration. 

Mr.  Benson  bit  his  lip,  gathered  up  his  papers,  his  pen,  his  ink, 
and,  with  an  angry  glance  at  Nicholas,  started  for  his  library. 

"  Can  I  see  you  a  moment,  this  morning,  Mr.  Benson  ?  "  said 
Nicholas,  as  the  latter  passed  him. 

There  was  an  air  of  restraint  about  both.  They  would  not 
quarrel  in  the  presence  of  Miss  Larkin,  but  both  recognized 
the  elements  of  a  quarrel  in  the  situation. 

"  It  doesn't  strike  me  that  it  is  advisable  for  us  to  meet  this 
morning,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  coolly.  "  I'm  in  no  mood  for  it. 
I  doubt  whether  you  are." 

"  Miss  Bruce,"  said  Nicholas,  "  if  Miss  Larkin  can  see  me 
before  I  leave  the  house,  I  will  return."  Then  to  Mr.  Benson  : 
"  I  shall  beg  the  privilege  of  a  few  minutes  in  the  library  with 
you.  You  know  I  don't  trouble  you  very  often." 

Mr.  Benson  found  himself  under  a  strange  self-control.  He 
had  deliberately  proposed  to  lie,  in  the  event  of  detection  in 
any  of  his  fraudulent  transactions,  and  to  take  the  consequences, 


320  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

whatever  they  might  be.  He  would  never  submit  to  a  confe* 
sion  of  his  misdeeds,  and  when  he  had  reached  this  point,  he 
had  found  what  seemed  like  solid  ground. 

The  two  men  passed  into  the  library  together.  Nicholas 
helped  himself  to  a  seat,  and  Mr.  Benson  took  one  between 
him  and  the  sharp  light  that  came  in  at  the  window. 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  what  has  so  agitated 
Miss  Larkin  this  morning?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

"  No;  it's  none  of  your  business." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  know  it  already ;  and  if  a  man  may  be  permitted  to 
speak  his  mind  in  his  own  house,  I  may  say  that  your  presence 
in  Miss  Larkin's  room  this  morning  was  an  impertinent  intru- 
sion, and  that  your  presence  here  possesses  quite  the  same 
character." 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  objection  to  your  opinion  on  these 
points,"  said  Nicholas  reddening  with  choler  in  spite  of  himself. 
'  But  it  seems  to  me  that  you  and  I  have  quite  a  fund  of  knowl- 
edge in  common.  We  both  know  why  it  is  that  you  dare  not 
resent  my  presence  here.  We  both  know  that  you  were  in  Miss 
Larkin's  room  for  the  purpose  of  cheating  her  out  of  her  fortune 
to  save  yourself.  We  both  know  it  was  one  of  the  meanest 
acts  of  your  life.  But  there  is  one  thing  that  you  do  not  know, 
and  that  I  propose  to  tell  you.  I  am  here  for  the  purpose  of 
saving  her  from  you.  I  apprehended  this  before  I  left  home, 
and  I  have  come  here  for  no  other  object  than  that  of  thwarting 
your  schemes.  I  propose  to  accomplish  this  object  before  I 
leave  this  house.  I  have  just  left  Mr.  Glezen's  office,  and  if 
she  will  accept  him,  he  will  henceforward  act  as  her  adviser. 
Have  you  any  objection  to  this  ?  " 

"Not  the  slightest." 

Nicholas  expected  an  explosion,  but  it  did  not  come.  He 
had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Benson  lied,  but  his  apparent  compliance 
with  his  plan  embarrassed  him. 

Mr.  Benson,  seeing  that  his  words  had  had  the  effect  he  de- 
sired, then  said : 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  321 

"  You  ought  to  know  that  my  time  is  very  precious  to  me, 
and  that  you  have  no  justification  for  compelling  me  to  tolerate 
your  presence  here  for  another  minute.  Shall  I  bid  you  good 
morning,  and  leave  you  to  your  plotting  against  a  man  who 
never  did  you  harm  ?  " 

"Not  yet,"  said  Nicholas,  who  began  to  feel  very  uncom- 
fortable. "  You  have  been  kind  enough  to  profess  some  in- 
terest in  the  recovery  of  the  bonds  that  were  stolen  from  me  at 
Ottercliff." 

"  Well,  what  of  the  bonds  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  clew  to  them." 

"Have  you?" 

Nicholas  watched  his  vis  a  "vis  very  closely,  but  he  did  not 
start.  There  had  been  a  change  in  him  which  he  did  not  com- 
prehend. He  had  seen  the  plastic  lime  harden  into  stone. 
He  had  seen  the  molten  iron  flowing  like  water,  and  cooling 
into  unimpressible  forms.  He  had  drunk  of  the  water  in  sum- 
mer upon  which  he  had  stepped  in  winter ;  but  never  before 
had  he  seen  a  man  in  whom  nerves  had  once  tingled  with  vi- 
tality, and  blood  had  coursed  warmly,  transformed  to  adamant. 

"Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  "I  have  a  clew  to  them.  I  have  a 
letter  now  in  my  pocket  which  I  know  to  have  come  from  one 
of  the  robbers.  He  has  told  me — or  rather  the  lawyer  to  whom 
I  committed  the  matter  has  told  me — just  what  has  been  done 
with  the  bonds.  I  know  the  night  on  which  they  were  trans- 
ferred to  the  hands  that  now  hold  them.  I  know  who  has 
them  in  his  possession." 

"  Does  the  man  who  holds  them  know  them  to  be  yours  ?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Benson,  in  the  most  quiet  manner  possible. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is  morally  sure  that  they  are 
mine,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  So  you  haven't  found  the  record  of  the  numbers  yet  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  If  you  know  where 
your  bonds  are,  and  know  who  holds  them,  why  don't  you 
claim  them  by  due  process  of  law  ?  Perhaps  you  are  morallj 
14* 


322  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

sure  where  your  bonds  are,  as  the  holder  may  be  morally  sure 
that  they  are  yours ;  but  moral  certainty  will  not  answer  in  a 
case  of  this  kind.  You  are  undoubtedly  a  sharp  man, — for  one 
of  your  age  and  experience, — and  although  I  have  not  much 
reason  for  favoring  you,  I  will  give  you  some  advice  that  you 
can  use  to  your  advantage.  You  have  taken  the  word  of  a 
confessed  thief,  and  believed  it  against  some  man  whom  I  do 
not  know,  of  course,  but  one  who  is  likely  to  be  a  man  of  good 
standing.  The  thief  is  after  money,  and  he  has  proved  to  you 
that  he  doesn't  care  how  he  gets  it.  Practically,  he  has  con- 
fessed this  to  you,  yet  you  talk  as  if  you  were  sure  that  he  had 
told  you  the  truth.  Now  if  he  had  known  me,  he  would  be  just 
as  likely  to  charge  me  with  holding  the  bonds  as  anybody.  No 
matter  whom  he  charges  with  the  act  of  purchasing,  it  is  an 
affair  that  it  will  not  do  for  you  to  talk  about.  I  don't  want 
you  to  tell  me  whom  you  suspect,  for,  if  I  should  find  a  man 
slandering  me  in  that  way  I  should  prosecute  him  for  libel  at 
once.  Take  care  of  yourself,  my  good  fellow,  even  if  you  lose 
your  bonds." 

Poor  Nicholas  was  at  his  wit's  end.  He  could  make  no 
headway  against  such  flinty  assurance  as  this.  He  had  ex- 
pected to  bring  Mr.  Benson  to  his  knees,  as  he  had  done  on 
former  occasions.  He  had  pictured  to  himself  this  trembling 
victim  of  his  righteous  wrath,  begging  for  his  mercy  and  restor- 
ing his  property.  Glezen  had  been  right,  for  once ;  and  he 
was  mastered,  though  he  was  just  as  sure  of  Mr.  Benson's  guilt 
as  he  was  when  he  entered  the  house.  In  the  present  condi- 
tion of  Mr.  Benson's  mind,  he  saw  that  his  plan  was  hopeless. 
Moral  certainties  were  of  no  more  account.  There  was  no 
way  by  which  Mr.  Benson  could  be  reached,  except  by  legal 
process  and  legal  evidence.  He  saw  that  his  case  was  weak — 
utterly  hopeless,  in  fact, — that  his  moral  certainty  was  a  legal 
uncertainty,  and  that  his  evidence,  in  a  court  of  justice,  without 
such  corroboration  as  he  could  not  command,  was  not  worth  a 
straw. 

He  saw  that  charging  Mr.  Benson  with  guilt  would  not  help 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  323 

his  case,  and  so — disappointed,  stunned,  helpless — he  rose  to 
take  his  leave.  He  had  learned  that  the  lion  running  for  his 
life,  and  the  lion  at  bay,  were  two  very  different  animals. 

After  Nicholas  went  out,  Mr.  Benson  was  filled  with  a  strange 
emotion  of  victory.  He  had  lost  Miss  Larkin,  but  he  had 
reached  the  point  where  he  was  ready  to  fight  for  the  hypothe- 
cated bonds  as  his  own,  which  made  him  independent  of  Miss 
Larkin.  She  was  quite  at  liberty  to  choose  her  own  advisers, 
and  he  would  take  care  of  himself,  in  the  only  way  that  she 
had  left  possible  to  him — at  her  friend's  expense  !  He  found 
himself  enjoying  a  subtle  sense  of  revenge  in  this,  and  went  out 
of  his  house  at  last  in  a  state  of  mind  more  collected  and  calm 
than  he  had  experienced  for  many  weeks. 

When  a  man  is  lost  in  a  thicket,  and  all  the  ways  which  lead 
toward  the  light  are  closed  against  him,  he  has  no  choice  but  to 
go  on  in  such  paths  as  he  can  find,  and  take  the  chances. 
The  path  he  takes  may  lead  him  to  a  precipice,  or  it  may  not. 
He  will  die  if  he  remains — of  that  he  is  sure.  There  is,  at  least, 
excitement  and  hope  in  action.  This  was  precisely  Mr.  Ben- 
son's condition. 

He  would  fight  for  life  to  the  last.  He  apprehended  the 
fact  that  Nicholas  believed  in  his  guilt,  and  he  knew  that  he 
had  made  no  change  in  the  young  man's  convictions ;  but  he 
had  learned  that  no  reliable  legal  evidence  was  at  command 
for  fastening  conviction  upon  himself,  and  he  believed  that  at 
this  far  distance  from  the  robbery  the  probabilities  were  all 
against  the  discovery  of  the  only  evidence  that  would  place  him 
hors  de  combat. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

WHICH  TELLS  HOW  LOVE  BECAME  A  PHYSICIAN  AND  PERFORMED 
QUITE  A  MIRACULOUS  CURE. 

Miss  LARKIN  had  felt  for  many  weeks  that  a  malign  influ- 
ence was  upon  her.  She  knew  that  Mr.  Benson  was  in 
trouble,  and  she  strongly  suspected  or  feared  that  she  was  to 
be  disastrously  associated  with  it.  She  had  endeavored  in  vain 
to  get  from  him  a  knowledge  of  her  affairs,  and  she  had  dwelt 
upon  the  trial  of  her  faith  and  patience  until  she  had  found 
herself  morbidly  depressed.  Her  progress  toward  the  recovery 
of  her  strength  seemed  to  have  been  arrested,  and  her  hope 
had  begun  to  die  out.  Her  attendant  noticed  with  alarm  the 
waning  of  her  courage,  but  there  was  one  cause  of  depression 
which  even  the  keen  eyes  of  Miss  Bruce  did  not  discover. 

Miss  Larkin  had  been  sure  for  weeks  and  months  that 
Nicholas  was  her  lover  ;  and  she  had  come  to  a  determination 
with  regard  to  it  which  had  cost  her  the  most  heroic  effort  of 
her  life.  The  moment  her  hope  began  to  waver,  under  the 
depressing  circumstances  which  environed  her,  this  determina- 
tion was  always  ready  to  crush  her  into  the  dust.  She  wept  in 
secret  over  her  awful  sense  of  sacrifice — a  sacrifice  of  which 
the  quick  heart  of  Nicholas  had  given  him  a  prophecy.  She 
was  sure  that  at  some  time  Nicholas  would  reveal  what  had 
long  since  ceased  to  be  a  secret  to  her,  and  she  intended,  for 
his  sake,  to  refuse  him.  Her  heart  had  discounted  the  great 
trial  and  she  had  taken  the  result  into  her  bosom  long  before 
its  time.  Of  course  it  was  poison  to  her.  In  her  sensitive 
organization,  brain  and  nerve  that  responded  so  readily  to  the 
quickening  influence  of  hope,  slackened  and  sank  back  before 
the  front  of  despair.  In  some  natures  the  mind  lives  upon 
the  body,  in  others  the  body  seems  to  live  upon  the  mind.  It 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  325 

drops  before  the  fall  of  a  hope  as  quickly  as  before  a  blow  of 
the  hand. 

It  was  in  her  depressed  mood  that  Mr.  Benson  found  her 
when  he  sought  her  on  the  morning  of  the  events  which  have 
been  narrated.  She  was  poorly  prepared  to  resist  his  unyield- 
ing demand,  and  nothing  but  her  fainting  fit  had  saved  her  from 
the  accomplishment  of  his  scheme. 

When  Nicholas  had  come  and  retired,  and  she,  returning  to 
consciousness,  realized  not  only  that  her  fears  in  regard  to  her 
fortune  were  groundless,  but  that  she  had  been  saved  from  en- 
dangering or  ruining  it  by  her  own  hand,  she  was  inexpressibly 
relieved.  A  great  burden  was  lifted  from  her  mind,  and  all  her 
vitalities  reacted,  as  the  grass  rises  after  a  rough  foot  has  pressed 
it.  Then  she  wanted  to  see  Nicholas  again,  and  perfect  and 
confirm  the  work  which  had  been  so  happily  begun. 

When  the  young  man  emerged  from  the  library,  after  his 
fruitless  interview  with  Mr.  Benson,  he  saw  Miss  Larkin's  door 
ajar,  and  recognized  the  seeming  accident  as  an  invitation. 
As  he  knocked,  and  quickly  entered,  Miss  Bruce  retired,  and 
he  found  Miss  Larkin  sitting  in  a  chair.  Her  eyes  showed  that 
she  had  been  weeping,  but  she  met  him  with  a  cordial  smile 
and  a  blush  that  proved  that  her  heart  was  beating  bravely  once 
more. 

Nicholas  had  met  with  a  great  discomfiture,  and  his  heart 
was  heavy ;  but  her  welcome  warmed  him  and  invited  him  to 
confidence. 

"  You  have  escaped  a  great  danger,  Miss  Larkin,"  he  said. 

"  For  which  I  am  indebted  to  you,"  she  responded,  with  a 
grateful  smile.  "  Isn't  it  strange  that  in  the  great  emergencies 
of  my  life  you  always  come  ?  " 

"  Especially  when  you  are  to  be  saved  from  your  guardian," 
he  said  bitterly. 

"  Have  you  quarreled  again  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  feel  that  there  are  to  be  no  more  quarrels  between 
Mr.  Benson  and  myself.  I  am  positively  awed  by  the  change 
that  he  has  undergone.  I  must  not  tell  you  of  what  has  hap 


jz6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

pened,  but  I  am  just  as  certain  that  a  great  calamity  is  coming 
to  him  and  to  this  house  as  I  am  that  a  great  sin  has  been  com- 
mitted here." 

"  You  astonish  me,  Mr.  Minturn." 

"  I  have  been  astonished — almost  terrified — myself.  I  want 
you  to  get  away  from  here.  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  live 
another  day  under  this  roof." 

"You  are  nervous,"  she  said,  looking  smilingly  into  his 
solemn  face. 

"  No,  I'm  not  nervous.  My  nerves  seem  almost  dead.  It 
is  a  conviction  and  not  an  impression.  You  must  see  that  I 
am  perfectly  calm.  Miss  Larkin,  there  is  a  cloud  over  this 
house,  and  there  is  lightning  in  it,  and  vengeance  in  the 
lightning." 

"  I  have  noticed  the  change  in  Mr.  Benson  of  which  you 
speak,"  she  said,  "  but  I'm  not  afraid  now." 

"  Do  you  know,  Miss  Larkin,  that  all  my  life  went  out  of  me 
tnis  morning  ?  I  can  deal  with  men,  but  not  with  the  devil,  or 
a  soul  in  his  possession.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  influence  was. 
I  shrank  before  it  as  if  it  came  from  one  whom  God  had  for- 
saken,— one  so  given  up  and  bound  to  sin  that  I  could  not 
willingly  give  him  occasion  for  further  perjury." 

"  You  distress  me.     Let  us  not  talk  about  it  any  more." 

"  One  thing  you  must  promise  me  first,"  said  Nicholas. 
"  Mr.  Benson  has  come  to  the  conclusion,  I  think,  that  it  will 
be  of  no  use  to  seek  aid  from  you,  after  this  morning,  and  the 
interview  which  he  saw  I  was  to  have  with  you ;  but  you  must 
promise  that  whatever  may  be  his  demands  and  importunities 
you  will  not  yield  to  them  without  consulting  Mr.  Glezen.  I 
have  told  Mr.  Benson  that  Glezen  will  act  as  your  adviser,  and 
he  has  assured  me  that  he  has  not  the  slightest  objection." 

"  Then  he  has  made  it  easy  for  me  to  give  the  promise,  and 
I  do  it  most  heartily  and  gratefully,"  said  Miss  Larkin. 

Another  burden  was  thus  lifted  from  her  heart ;  and  the  busi- 
ness of  Nicholas  was  completed,  but  he  lingered.  He  had 
been  full  of  pity  and  apprehension  for  her,  and  his  love  for  her 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  327 

had  sprung  to  her  defense.  He  had  her  promise,  but  he 
wanted  something  more.  He  had  watched  her,  as  she  sat  be- 
fore him,  in  her  momently  freshening  beauty,  and  felt  that  the 
hour  of  his  destiny  had  come. 

"  Miss  Larkin,"he  said,  while  the  color  forsook  his  trembling 
lips,  "  I  have  carried  a  thought  in  my  heart  from  the  first  day 
of  our  meeting,  and  I  must  speak  it  now." 

Miss  Larkin  apprehended  the  long-dreaded  announcement. 
She  had  warded  it  off  more  than  once,  and  intended  to  do  it 
again,  and  always ;  but  she  saw  that  there  was  no  help  for  it 
now,  without  an  interruption  which  she  was  not  rude  enough  to 
make.  She  turned  away  her  face,  that  grew  pale  under  his 
earnest  gaze. 

"  I  must  tell  you  that  you  have  changed  my  whole  being. 
When  I  first  met  you,  I  was  aimless  and,  of  course,  useless. 
The  touch  of  your  hand  has  fructified  my  life.  Whatever  I  am 
to-day,  and  whatever  I  am  doing,  are  the  record  of  your  work 
upon  me.  I  can  no  more  help  loving  you  than  I  can  help 
breathing.  Whatever  may  come  of  it — whatever  may  be  your 
feeling  toward  me — you  must  permit  me  to  tell  you  this,  for 
you  are  a  constant  presence  in  my  daily  work  and  my  nightly 
dreams.  You  are  my  angel  of  inspiration.  It  seems  as  if 
God  himself  had  expressed  his  love  for  me  through  you,  and 
that  my  return  for  the  gift  has  been  made  through  the  same 
channel.  Humbly,  and  without  boasting,  let  me  say  that  what 
I  have  given  has  been  as  pure  as  that  which  I  have  received. 
And  now  that  I  see  you  in  danger, — when  I  know  that  you 
are  in  hands  unworthy  of  your  keeping, — my  heart  and  hands 
spring  to  your  defense.  I  wish  to  shield  you.  I  long  to  make 
you  mine — to  hold  the  right  to  stand  between  you  and  all 
danger." 

These  words,  inspired  to  such  winning  eloquence  by  the  pas- 
sion that  moved  him,  came  so  swiftly  and  impetuously  that 
Miss  Larkin  could  not  have  interrupted  him  had  she  attempted 
to  do  so.  At  their  close,  she  gave  a  convulsive  sob,  as  if  hex 
heart  had  risen  to  her  mouth,  and  she  had  forced  it  violently 


3z8  NICHOLAS  MTNTURN. 

back  to  its  place.  Overcome  by  her  emotion,  it  was  a  long 
time  before  she  could  speak. 

"  Mr.  Minturn,"  she  said,  after  a  period  of  painful  silence, 
"  it  is  a  hard  return  to  make  for  such  a  confession  as  yours,  but 
I  must  say  to  you — however  much  it  may  cost  me — that  you 
have  given  me  the  most  terrible  pain  of  my  life.  It  cannot  be  ! 
It  cannot  be  ! " 

"  It  must  be  !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  starting  to  his  feet.  "  It 
shall  be  !  What  have  I  lived  for  ?  Why  did  God  bring  us  to- 
gether? Does  he  delight  in  mocking  his  poor  creatures? 
Does  he  rejoice  in  their  torture?  Does  he  set  traps  for 
them,  and  beguile  them  into  bondage,  that  he  may  laugh  at 
them  ?  Why  has  he  spoken  to  me  through  you  ?  Why  has  he 
held  you  before  me  as  a  prize,  and  made  every  moment  of  these 
last  months  more  precious  than  gold  with  the  thought  of  you  ? 
It  must  be  !  It  shall  be  !  " 

Nicholas  walked  the  room,  back  and  forth,  like  a  tiger  newly 
caged,  pausing  at  Miss  Larkin's  chair  and  looking  into  her 
upturned  eyes  to  emphasize  his  wild  questions. 

"My  dear  friend,  do  not  talk  in  this  way,"  she  said,  at 
length.  "  You  cannot  know  how  much  you  distress  me." 

"  Then  why  do  you  say  it  cannot  be  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  bend- 
ing at  her  side.  "  If  you  say  " — and  his  voice  grew  low  and 
tremulous — "that  you  do  not  love  me — that  you  cannot  love 
me — I  will  try  with  God's  help  to  bear  it,  and  bear  a  life  shorn 
of  hope  and  every  aim  except  forgetfulness  ;  but  there  is  no 
other  reason  in  God's  world  that  I  will  accept.  Do  you  tell 
me  that  you  do  not  and  cannot  love  me  ? — that  all  the  blood 
that  has  flowed  out  of  my  heart  has  gone  into  the  sand  ?  Oh 
my  God  !  my  God  !  why  was  I  born  ?  " 

Miss  Larkin  had  dropped  her  eyes,  and  did  not  dare  to  raise 
them.  Oh,  that  she  could  feel  at  liberty  to  respond  to  this  tide 
of  passion,  every  drop  of  which  was  filled  with  life  for  her ! — • 
every  drop  of  which  was  feeding  her  at  the  fountain  of  hot 
life! 

"  Mr.  Minturn  ! " 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  329 

He  came  back  to  his  seat,  arrested  and  calmed  by  her  quiet 
voice. 

"  You  are  a  man,"  she  said.  "  Can  you  bear  pain  ?  Can 
you  bear  pain  like  a  woman  ?  Can  you  bear  pain  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  can  bear  anything  with  you,"  he  responded. 

"  Can  you  bear  separation  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  can  bear  any  separation  that  is  necessary.  I  should  be  a 
fool  to  bear  any  that  is  not." 

"  You  have  done  me  a  great  honor,"  said  Miss  Larkin. 

"  Don't !  You  humiliate  me !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  almost 
fiercely. 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  say  to  you  ?  What  can  I  say  to  you  ? 
What  would  you  think  of  me — what  would  your  friends  think  of 
me — if,  in  my  helplessness  and  uselessness,  I  were  willing  to 
appropriate  your  life  ?  I  should  forever  be  ashamed  of  myself 
were  I  to  do  so  base  a  thing." 

"  You  do  not  love  me  !  You  cannot  love  me  !  "  exclaimed 
Nicholas,  hotly. 

"  I  don't  see  why  that  should  matter,"  she  said. 

"  Are  you  so  cold  ?  Is  it  all  a  mistake  ?  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  could  be  so  base  as  to  forsake  and  deny  the  woman  I 
love,  or  permit  her  to  sacrifice  herself  for  any  such  considera- 
tions as  seem  to  have  weight  with  you  ?  Why,  your  helplessness 
is  to  me  the  very  glory  of  my  love.  It  forever  sets  the  seal  of 
genuineness  upon  my  passion.  I'm  thankful  that  God  has  put 
the  purity  of  my  love  beyond  question.  I  tell  you  that  the 
contemplation  of  the  task  of  taking  care  of  you,  and  minister- 
ing  to  your  pleasure  and  your  comfort,  has  filled  my  future  with 
its  sweetest  light." 

"My  friend, — my  best  friend, — cannot  you  understand  that 
the  measure  of  a  woman's  love  is  to  be  found  in  the  measure  of 
her  self-denial  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  saying  ?  "  said  Nicholas  eagerly. 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes  while  the  tears  rained  down  her 
cheeks.  He  read  it  all.  What  divine  intuition  gave  him  light 
what  revelation  of  the  power  of  love  was  whispered  in  his  ear 


330  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

what  miracle  had  been  wrought  upon  her  for  which  he  had 
been  made  unconsciously  ready,  he  did  not  know,  but  he  ex- 
tended his  arms  where  he  stood,  and  she  rose  and  was  folded 
in  his  strong  embrace. 

"  Mine  !  "  he  said.     "  Mine  forever  !  " 

He  held  her  to  his  breast  in  a  long  transport  of  happiness, 
and  then,  for  the  first  time  he  realized  the  change  in  her. 

"Great  God!"  he  exclaimed,  putting  her  head  away  from 
him.  "Do  you  know  that  you  are  on  your  feet  ?  " 

"  Am  I  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  start. 

This  was  too  much  for  Nicholas.  He  had  fought  his  way 
through  all  the  difficulties  of  the  hour,  sometimes  desperately 
and  always  bravely,  but  this  miracle  touched  the  deepest  foun- 
tain of  his  emotions,  and,  leading  her  back  to  her  chair,  he 
abandoned  himself — like  the  simple-hearted  boy  that  he  was — 
to  his  tears. 

All  her  burdens  were  lifted  now.  The  hand  of  Love  had 
touched  her,  and  healed  her.  "  Maiden  arise  !  "  it  had  said ; 
and  she  had  obeyed  the  command,  and  felt  that  she  was  whole 
again.  Full  of  gratitude,  possessed  by  a  glad  peace  that  made 
heaven  of  the  little  room  where  she  had  so  long  been  a  prisoner, 
she  sat  and  watched  the  young  man  at  her  side  whom  Heaven 
had  bestowed  upon  her,  and  realized  with  ineffable  joy  that, 
despite  herself,  her  life  had  been  united  to  his. 

How  long  her  new  strength  would  last,  she  did  not  know. 
Her  hopes  had  been  roused  more  than  once,  to  be  crushed ; 
but  she  could  not  but  believe  that  the  new  stimulus  from  with- 
out and  the  refreshed  and  strengthened  faith  and  courage  within, 
would  confirm  the  cure  so  auspiciously  begun. 

She  touched  his  hand. 

"Why  do  you  weep?  "  she  said. 

"  My  dear  Grace,"  he  responded,  "  God  only  knows  how 
almost  madly  I  have  prayed  for  this ;  and  now  that,  by  what 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  veritable  miracle,  he  has  answered  my 
prayers,  I  am  awed  and  humiliated.  I  hardly  dare  to  lift  my 
eyes,  and  look  around  me ;  and  when  I  think  how  precious  a 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  331 

prize  I  have  won,  with  what  boyish  petulance  I  fought  for  it, 
and  how  unworthy  of  it  my  impatience  proved  me  to  be,  it 
almost  makes  an  infidel  of  me.  It  seems  as  if  God  could  not 
have  respected  such  greedy  and  inconsiderate  beseechings, 
and  that  all  this  change  must  have  come  through  some  happj 
chance." 

"  You'll  soon  run  through  this  mood,  I  am  sure,"  she  said. 
"Let  us  walk." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  steadied  to  her  feet  by  his  strength, 
and  clasping  his  arm  with  her  locked  hands,  she  paced  slowly 
back  and  forth  through  the  room  with  him. 

The  newly  recovered  powers  did  not  fail,  and  it  was  only 
after  the  persistent  persuasions  of  Nicholas  that  she  consented 
to  resume  her  seat. 

Then  he  said  : 

"  It  can  be  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  it  shall  be?" 

"Yes." 

"Now,"  said  Nicholas,  "I  must  get  you  out  of  this  nouse.  j. 
do  not  wish  to  enter  it  again.  It  is  a  house  in  which  I  have 
experienced  the  greatest  happiness  of  my  life,  but  something 
terrible  is  going  to  happen  here,  and  you  must  not  be  here  to 
witness  it,  or  share  its  consequences." 

"  Why,  Nicholas,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  unreasonable 
— almost  superstitious." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  he  responded. 

"  How  can  I  forsake  Mrs.  Benson  ?  " 

"  God  pity  her  !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  sadly. 

"And  why  should  not  I  ?  " 

"  Pity  her,  by  all  means,  and  leave  her  to  her  griefs  and  morti- 
fications undisturbed." 

"  But  where  can  I  go  ?  " 

"  Leave  that  to  me." 

"  Very  well,  since  you  so  strongly  wish  it" 

"  Can  I  speak  of  this  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Our  engagement  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

To  the  man — glad  and  triumphant — this  would  be  an  easy 
matter.  To  the  woman,  there  came  considerations  which  em- 
barrassed her.  The  cure  and  the  engagement  came  too  near 
together. 

"  Only  in  confidence,  for  the  present,"  she  said. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  bade  him  good-morning,  and 
Nicholas  went  out  into  the  cold  sunshine,  and  saw  men  hurry- 
ing by  on  their  petty  errands,  heard  the  empty  roar  of  the 
streets,  saw  the  vulgar  traffic  that  was  going  on  on  every  hand, 
and  wondered  that  nobody  had  known  about,  or  cared  for,  the 
events  which  had  wrought  so  powerfully  upon  himself.  His 
memory  went  to  and  fro  between  the  darkness  and  the  light  of 
the  two  rooms  in  which  he  had  spent  the  morning — between 
the  chamber  that  had  seemed  forsaken  of  the  divine  presence, 
and  that  which  was  flooded  with  it ;  between  the  man  who 
was  sinking  in  the  darkness,  and  the  woman  who  was  rising 
into  light;  between  the  man  who  had  robbed  him  of  his 
gold,  and  the  woman  who  had  given  him  herself,  until,  almost 
before  he  knew,  his  hand  had  rung  the  bell  at  the  door  of  Mr. 
Coates. 

He  could  tell  Miss  Coates  all  about  it,  "in  confidence." 
He  found  her  at  home,  and  watched  her  swimming  eyes  while 
he  made  his  revelation.  He  could  not  tell  her  why  he  wanted 
to  have  Miss  Larkin  removed  from  her  home,  but  he  assured 
her  that  it  must  be  done. 

"  I  should  be  delighted  to  have  her  here,"  said  Miss  Coates, 
quickly.  "  I  think  my  mother  will  consent  to  my  inviting  her 
to  make  us  a  visit." 

"  Suppose  we  ask  her,"  said  Nicholas,  anxious  to  have  the 
matter  disposed  of. 

Miss  Coates  was  too  familiar  with  her  mother's  weakness  to 
trust  any  hands  but  her  own  with  the  management  of  that  ques- 
tion. Mrs.  Coates  did  not  approve  of  having  young  ladies  in 
the  house  who  would  divide  attention  with  Jenny,  and  fearing 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  333 

an  awkward  scene  if  she  admitted  her  to  the  conference,  Miss 
Coates  said : 

"  If  you  will  leave  the  affair  with  me,  I  think  I  can  arrange 
it." 

Nicholas  was  profuse  with  his  thanks. 

"  No,  you  owe  me  nothing.  I  am  only  too  glad  to  be  of 
the  slightest  service  to  one  to  whom  I  owe  so  much,"  she  re- 
sponded. "  You  have  made  me  very  happy  by  your  confidence, 
and  by  telling  me  of  the  fulfillment  of  a  hope  that  has  been  one 
of  the  strongest  of  my  life.  I  have  seen  it  all  from  the  first,  in 
both  of  you." 

"Have  you?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  approved  of  it." 

She  gave  him  both  her  hands  at  parting,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  profoundly  grateful  for  your  happiness,  and  I  con- 
gratulate you.  I  could  wish  for  both  of  you  nothing  different 
and  nothing  better." 

Before  night,  Miss  Coates,  charged  with  her  invitation,  called 
on  Miss  Larkin,  and  the  following  morning  was  fixed  upon  for 
the  commencement  of  the  visit. 

Mr.  Benson  received  the  announcement  without  a  frown  and 
without  a  smile, — in  the  business  way  in  which  he  would  have 
received  any  statement  on  'Change.  He  realized  that  she  was 
dead  to  him,  and  that  her  affairs  would  soon  pass  out  of  his 
hands.  Still,  he  would  appear  to  be  interested  in  her ;  and 
when  Nicholas  and  Miss  Coates  drove  to  the  door,  he  was 
there  with  helpful  service  and  polite  attention  to  see  her  off. 
He  bore  into  the  street,  as  she  entered  the  carriage  and  drove 
away,  a  semblance  of  his  old,  courtly  manner. 

"  Don't  stay  long,  my  dear  \  Don't  stay  long ! "  he  said,  as 
he  lifted  his  hat  at  parting ;  and  then  he  went  back  into  the 
house,  past  his  sad  wife  to  whom  he  did  not  even  give  a  glance, 
up  the  staircase,  into  his  library. 

But  Miss  Larkin  did  stay  a  long  time.  In  truth,  she  never 
returned, 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IK    WHICH    NICHOLAS    ANNOUNCES    HIS   CURE    FOR    PAUPERISM 

TO   THE   EAR   OF   THE   ASSEMBLED   WISDOM   OF  THE 

CITY,  AND   RETIRES  WITH   A   FLEA   IN   HIS   OWN. 

NICHOLAS,  with  all  the  hopefulness  of  his  temperament,  and 
all  the  confidence  that  was  engendered  by  his  persistent  activi- 
ties and  their  grateful  results,  had  many  hours  of  doubt  and  dis- 
couragement. The  longer  he  lived  in  the  city,  the  larger  it 
seemed  to  him.  The  more  he  became  acquainted  with  the 
sources  of  pauperism,  and  comprehended  the  influences  which 
fostered  it,  the  more  incurable  it  appeared.  The  unwillingness 
of  the  pauperized  masses  to  be  lifted  from  their  degradation, 
the  organized  falsehood  that  prevailed  among  them,  their  dis- 
position to  transform  all  the  agencies  that  were  employed  for 
their  help  into  means  for  enabling  them  to  live  without  work, 
their  absolute  loss  of  all  manly  and  womanly  impulses  and  am- 
bitions, their  intemperance,  their  apparent  lack  of  power  to 
stand,  even  when  placed  upon  their  feet  with  a  remunerative 
task  before  them,  were  circumstances  which,  in  some  moods  of 
his  mind,  so  sickened  and  disgusted  him  that  he  felt  like  retir- 
ing from  the  field. 

He  saw  great  rascalities  in  progress  of  growth,  or  in  the  de- 
scent of  disaster,  every  one  of  which  was  bending  with  its  crop 
of  pauperism — organized  bodies  of  speculators  making  haste  to 
be  rich  without  the  production  of  a  dollar,  and  getting  rich  at 
the  expense  of  the  impoverishment  of  large  masses  of  men — 
single  operators  rising  upon  the  topmost  waves  of  affluence, 
while  down  in  the  dark  hollows  their  victims  were  crying  for 
help  or  drowning — great  industries  overdone  through  the  strifes 
and  competitions  of  capital,  and  then  thousands  thrown  out  of 
employment  and  reduced  to  beggary  ! 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  335 

He  saw  at  the  corner  of  every  street  the  magazines  of  liquid 
death  doing  their  poisonous  work  on  body  and  soul,  licensed 
and  cherished  by  the  politics  of  a  great  city,  and  intrenched 
behind  the  strongholds  of  law  and  public  opinion.  He  saw 
comfortable  men  going  in,  day  after  day,  and  coming  out  poor 
and  debauched,  imbibing  with  their  intoxicating  and  debasing 
draughts  the  habits  of  idleness  which  inevitably  made  paupers 
of  them  and  their  wives  and  children.  He  saw  ten  thousand 
grog-shops  absorbing  not  only  the  hard  earnings  of  the  poor, 
but  the  mistaken  gifts  of  the  benevolent,  who  were  trying  to 
give  them  bread.  He  saw  uncounted  masses  of  men,  women 
and  children,  poisoned  through  and  through  with  drink,  and 
dark  figures  moving  among  them  inflamed  to  cruelty  and 
crime  ;  and  he  realized  that  the  little  he  had  done  to  stem  this 
tide  of  degradation  was  only  to  be  compared  to  the  holding  of 
his  hand  in  the  rapids  of  a  Niagara.  He  looked  around  him, 
among  the  rich  and  the  good,  and  saw  them  apathetic — over- 
awed by,  or  content  with,  the  respectability  of  a  traffic  and  a 
practice  which  were  the  daily  source  of  more  misery,  debase- 
ment, poverty  and  crime,  than  any  which  he  knew,  and  felt 
that  he  was  regarded  by  them  either  as  a  weak  enthusiast,  or 
an  impracticable  fanatic.  No  voice  of  warning  that  he  could 
raise  would  be  heard  amid  the  jeers  of  the  scoffing  crowd.  No 
importunities  for  reform  that  he  could'  utter  would  be  thought 
worthy  of  a  hearing  ! 

Then  he  looked  about  him  to  count  up  the  influences  for 
relief.  He  had  studied  these  in  every  respect,  with  persistent 
inquiry.  He  had  visited  the  hospitals,  the  charitable  guilds, 
the  great  societies.  He  had  found  much  conscientious  laboi 
in  progress,  but  everything  was  for  relief,  and  next  to  nothing 
for  reform.  Pauperism  had  been  accepted  as  a  fixed  fact,  and 
the  great  anxiety  of  the  benevolent  societies  seemed  to  be  to 
ward  off  suffering.  Their  work  was  done  if  nobody  was  starved 
or  frozen.  The  causes  of  pauperism  had  little  consideration,  and 
less  attempt  to  remove  them.  On  one  side  lay  the  great  world 
of  poverty,  and  suffering,  anc1  deliberately  chosen  helplessness. 


336  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

On  the  other,  the  benevolent  endeavor  to  shield  this  world  of 
helplessness  from  the  consequences  of  its  dissipations,  its  idle- 
ness, and  its  misdeeds.  Now  and  then,  undoubtedly,  worthy 
poverty  was  helped ;  but  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  pauperism 
was  cherished.  People  had  learned  to  live  upon  these  socie- 
ties. They  knew  that  in  the  last  resort — however  basely  they 
might  part  with  their  means  of  living  earned  in  fitful  labor,  or 
picked  up  in  the  street  from  door  to  door — they  would  not  be 
permitted  by  these  societies  to  starve.  He  saw,  too,  that  the 
disease  of  pauperism  was  infectious,  and  that  even  those  who 
had  the  means  of  living  hid  them,  and,  with  the  basest  lies, 
cheated  the  societies  into  their  support. 

More  than  all  this,  and  sadder  even  than  all  this,  he  saw  that 
these  associations  were  in  competition  with  each  other  for  the 
public  support,  and  that  their  officers  were  magnifying  their  im- 
portance at  the  expense  of  their  neighbors, — that  they  were 
the  nurseries  of  political  and  church  influence,  and  schemes  for 
office,  and  personal  support  and  aggrandizement.  He  saw  petty 
jealousies  among  them,  and  heard  the  bruiting  of  rival  claims 
to  consideration  and  usefulness. 

Outside  of  these  he  saw  an  army  of  devoted  Christian  workers, 
engaged  in  the  almost  fruitless  attempt  to  make  Christians  of 
those  who  had  not  the  energy,  or  truthfulness,  or  ambition,  to 
be  men.  Even  these  were  engaged  in  rivalry.  Sect  was  stri- 
ving with  sect  for  the  possession  of  children, — for  the  privilege 
of  teaching  them, — holding  them  by  the  power  of  gifts  and 
amusing  entertainments. 

Sympathizing  profoundly  with  the  aims  of  these  workers,  but 
distrusting  their  means  and  machinery,  he  could  hope  for  but 
little  in  the  way  of  useful  results.  Here  and  there  he  could  find 
a  man  who  understood  the  work  to  be  done — a  man  who  under- 
stood that  he  could  do  little  for  a  child  whose  home,  in  every 
influence,  was  wrong.  Where  there  was  one  of  these,  however, 
there  were  a  hundred  whose  influence  was  tributary  to,  and  con- 
firmatory of,  the  pauperism  in  which  the  children  of  their  Sun- 
day charge  had  their  birth  and  daily  life.  They  were  instructed 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  337 

without  being  developed.  The  chapels  and  school-rooms  insti- 
tuted by  the  churches  had  the  fixed  and  everlasting  fact  of  pau- 
perism for  their  corner-stone.  There  the  teeming  generations 
of  paupers  were  to  come  and  go,  without  even  the  opportunity 
to  develop  themselves  into  self-supporting  schools  and  churches, 
or  to  attain  any  influence  that  would  be  tributary  to  their  sense 
of  manhood  and  womanhood.  Building  without  a  basis  for 
issues  without  value,  there  were  thousands  of  Christian  men 
and  women  spending  time  and  comfort  and  money.  They 
were  winning  much  for  themselves ;  they  were  doing  but  little 
for  others. 

This  awful  chasm  between  the  rich  and  the  poor ! — what 
would  come  of  it  ?  This  nether  world  and  this  upper  world  ! — 
how  could  they  be  brought  together  ?  Envy  upon  one  side, 
pity  upon  the  other  ! — how  could  these  widely  separated  realms 
be  made  to  understand  each  other  ?  How  could  they  be  brought 
into  mutual  sympathy  and  mutual  respect  ? 

These  were  the  great  facts  and  great  problems  that  stared  the 
young  man  in  the  face  at  every  angle  of  vision.  Surface  views, 
surface  work,  surface  results,  everywhere  !  Nothing  radical 
anywhere  !  Much  for  palliation,  nothing  for  cure  !  A  world 
of  benevolent  intent  and  beneficent  action,  more  than  a  moiety 
of  which  went  to  the  nourishment  of  the  monster  who  held  the 
pauperized  poor  in  its  toils  ! 

Yet,  when  Nicholas  undertook  to  push  his  views,  or  express 
his  apprehensions,  or  criticise  the  movements  and  operations 
of  the  benevolent  people  around  him,  he  was  always  met  with 
protests  and  discouragements.  He  was  assured  that  the  great 
charities  were  in  the  wisest  hands  the  city  possessed  ;  that  the 
men  who  directed  them  had  had  great  experience  and  long 
observation  ;  and  often  it  was  kindly  hinted  to  him  that  he  was 
young,  and  told  that  he  would  probably  change  his  views  some- 
what, after  having  lived  a  little  longer  and  seen  a  little  more. 
He  could  not  point  them  to  what  he  had  already  done,  for  the 
final  outcome  of  that  was  not  yet  apparent. 

It  was  fortunate  for  him  that  he  was  young — that  his  heart 
15 


338  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

was  not  dead,  that  his  insight  was  not  blunted,  and  that  he  had 
no  preconceived  notions  to  influence  his  judgment,  or  hinder 
his  action.  It  was  fortunate,  too,  for  him  that  he  had  that 
boldness  of  youth  which  does  not  pause  to  consider  personal 
consequences,  or  the  possibilities  of  failure.  To  a  certain  ex- 
tent,  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  working  in  the  dark,  but  he 
definitely  saw  something  to  be  done,  he  had  no  question  that 
the  instrumentalities  which  were  in  operation  around  him  were 
incompetent  to  produce  the  desiderated  result,  and  he  was 
quick  and  fertile  in  expedients. 

A  great  scheme  unfolded  itself  to  him  :  how  could  he  accom- 
plish it  ?  How  could  he  even  propose  it  ? 

With  the  exception  of  the  little  speech  he  had  made  upon  the 
spur  of  the  moment  at  "The  Atheneum,"  on  the  night  of  the 
opening  of  that  institution,  he  had  never  undertaken  even  the 
humblest  public  address.  Still,  he  believed  that  he  could  talk 
if  he  could  keep  his  head.  He  realized  the  difference  between 
an  audience  of  ignorant  men  and  men  of  the  class  whom  he 
wished  to  reach ;  but  he  believed  that  if  he  could  get  his  idea 
definitely  into  his  own  mind,  he  could  at  least  express  it  in  a 
manner  to  be  apprehended,  though  he  might  do  it  somewhat 
clumsily. 

His  first  thought  was  that  he  would  invite  a  number  of 
gentlemen  to  his  own  rooms,  but  as  he  wrote  out  the  names  of 
those  who  were  engaged  in  benevolent  efforts,  in  private  and 
official  positions,  he  found  that  his  apartments  would  be  too 
strait  for  the  number  he  desired  to  call  together.  Then  he 
determined  to  invite  every  man  connected  with  the  different 
societies,  every  clergyman,  every  missionary,  every  agent  and 
almoner,  and  a  large  number  of  private  citizens,  to  meet  him 
at  "  The  Atheneum."  So  he  immediately  secured  the  printing 
and  the  distribution  of  his  invitations. 

The  men  whom  he  invited  had  all  heard  of  Nicholas  and  his 
operations,  and  many  of  them  knew  him  personally.  His 
wealth  and  social  consideration,  his  unique  devotion  to  benevo- 
lent efforts,  and  a  personal  reputation  which  began  with  hif 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  339 

heroism  upon  the  lost  "Ariadne,"  and  had  been  fed  by  the 
reports  of  his  operations  at  "The  Atheneum,'  brought  together 
not  only  a  respectable  and  willing,  but  a  very  curious  audience. 
He  trembled  when  he  saw  it  enter, — the  men  of  age,  the  men 
of  substance  and  social  importance,  the  men  of  eloquence  and 
influence,  the  officials  of  the  societies, — the  great  and  learned 
and  good,  and  those  who  lived  in  their  shadow  or  their  sunshine ; 
but  he  was  sure  of  his  motives,  at  least,  and  he  needed  not  to 
be  afraid. 

Without  any  formality  of  organization,  Nicholas  came  mod- 
estly forth  upon  the  platform,  and  was  received  in  blank 
silence.  He  looked  so  young  and  assumed  so  little,  as  he  ap- 
peared before  them,  he  had  seemed  so  old  and  presumed  so 
much  in  calling  them  together,  that  his  audience  naturally  as- 
sumed a  critical  and  questioning  mood.  The  atmosphere  in 
which  he  found  himself  was  not  calculated  to  re-assure  him ; 
and  during  the  first  minutes  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
standing  face  to  face  with  immovable  prejudice  and  jealous 
conservatism.  They  had  come  to  see  him  and  hear  what 
he  had  to  say,  without  the  desire  to  learn,  and  without  a 
doubt  that  they  knew  more  than  he  upon  the  subject  of  his 
communication.  They  had  come  to  hear  an  interesting 
school-boy  declaim,  to  pat  him  on  the  shoulder  with  approval 
if  he  should  do  his  work  well,  and  then  good-naturedly  to  go 
home  to  their  own  plans,  and  self-complacently  to  resume 
their  labors. 

"It  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  Nicholas,  making  his  modest 
bow,  "  that  you,  who  have  had  so  much  experience  in  dealing 
with  the  poverty  of  the  city,  and  you  who  are  interested  in  all 
benevolent  enterprises,  may  like  to  know  what  I  have  been 
doing  here,  and  with  what  results.  It  is  possible  that  I  ought, 
at  the  beginning,  to  ask  your  pardon  for  not  having  consulted 
you  upon  my  plans,  but  I  beg  you  to  remember  that  where 
there  are  so  many  rival  claims  to  pre-eminence,  and  so  much 
conflicting  wisdom,  a  young  and  inexperienced  stranger  would 
have  a  difficult  task  in  determining  the  truth." 


340  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

A  smile  went  around  the  audience,  who  appreciated  the  very 
palpable  hit 

"I  confess,  however,"  he  went  on,  "  to  having  discovered  in 
myself  a  certain  inaptitude  to  work  in  an  organization  which  I 
cannot  myself  direct.  This  may  look  to  you  like  presumption, 
but  I  do  not  think  it  is.  At  any  rate,  I  am  satisfied  with  my 
experiment,  so  far  as  it  has  gone,  and  now,  with  your  leave,  I 
vrill  give  you  a  brief  account  of  it." 

Then  Nicholas  gave  in  detail  the  history  of  "  The  Athe- 
neum  "  enterprise,  with  which  the  reader  is  already  familiar. 

Every  friend  and  official  representative  of  the  charitable  socie- 
ties listened  to  the  story  with  profound  interest,  trying  to  find 
something  to  engraft  upon  his  own  enterprise.  Each  was  alert  to 
pick  up  suggestions  which  would  add  capital  and  practical  work- 
ing power  to  his  own  scheme,  and,  at  the  close  of  the  narrative, 
Nicholas  was  almost  overwhelmed  with  questions  from  the  va- 
rious dignitaries  before  him. 

When  these  questions  were  answered,  and  the  brief  discus- 
sions to  which  they  gave  rise  had  died  away,  Nicholas  said : 

"  Gentlemen,  the  story  of  my  work  here  is  but  the  prelude  to 
a  proposition  which  I  have  to  make.  It  should  come  through 
weightier  words  than  mine, — from  an  older  man  and  a  man 
more  widely  known, — but  if  the  proposition  has  any  strength, 
it  has  it  in  itself  and  not  in  me.  It  is  well,  perhaps,  that  it  will 
come  to  you  without  any  great  name  and  influence  behind  it,  so 
that  you  may  consider  and  handle  it  on  its  own  merits. 

"I  have,  during  my  few  months  of  experience,  become  most 
discouragingly  aware  of  the  utter  incompetency  of  the  present 
modes  of  dealing  with  pauperism,  and  I  have  come  to  the  pro- 
found, and  what  seems  to  me  the  irreversible,  conviction,  that 
there  need  not  be  one  thousand  paupers,  at  any  one  time,  in 
the  city  of  New  York." 

"  Oh  ! "  "  oh  ! "  "  oh ! "  came  up  in  tones  of  incredulity  from 
every  part  of  the  hall. 

Nicholas  felt  the  sting,  and  it  did  him  good. 

"  If  there  had  ever  been  in  this  city,"  he  went  on,  "a  single 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  341 

great  organization,  either  of  benevolence  or  police,  which  em- 
braced every  district  in  its  surveillance  and  its  offices  of 
administration,  and  that  organization  had  fallen  into  a  hundred 
pieces,  which  had  been  grasped  at  and  appropriated  by  oppos- 
ing sects  and  rival  guilds  and  associations,  we  could  come  to 
but  one  conclusion,  viz.,  that  the  great  enterprise  of  helping 
the  poor  was  in  a  state  of  organized  disorganization.  That,  as 
I  apprehend  it,  is  precisely  the  condition  of  this  great  enter- 
prise to-day.  Our  organization  is  disorganization.  These  war- 
ring parts,  informed  and  moved  by  discordant  aims,  vitalized 
by  differing  and  often  jarring  motives,  seeking  incongruous 
ends,  ought  to  be  the  factors  of  a  harmonious  whole.  What 
are  you  doing  now,  gentlemen,  but  paddling  around  among 
palliations  ?  What  are  many  of  you  doing  but  nourishing — not 
designedly,  of  course,  and  not  directly,  perhaps — but  still 
nourishing,  in  spite  of  yourselves,  the  very  vice  whose  conse- 
quences you  are  endeavoring  to  assuage  ?  What  are  you 
doing  but  trying  to  build  up  separate  interests  in  a  cause  which, 
in  its  very  nature,  has  but  one  ?  How  much  of  private,  church 
and  political  interest  stands  organized,  aggressive  and  self- 
defensive  at  the  head  of  your  great  charities  ?  And  what  have 
you  done  ?  The  station-houses  are  thronged  every  night  with 
disgusting  tramps  and  paupers  who  haunt  your  kitchens  for 
food,  who  hold  out  their  dirty  hands  to  you  in  the  streets,  who 
refuse  work  when  it  is  offered  to  them,  and  who  shame  the  sun- 
light  with  their  filthy  rags.  Does  your  work  grow  less  with  all 
your  expenditures?  Is  pauperism  decreasing?  Is  it  not 
coming  in  upon  you  and  beating  upon  your  sympathies  and 
your  efforts  in  constantly  augmenting  waves  ?  " 

Nicholas  was  entirely  aware  that  he  had  assumed  a  tone  and 
directness  of  address  that  were  unbecoming  to  him,  but  he  had 
been  stirred  to  them  by  the  sneers  and  the  quiet,  amused  glan- 
ces that  he  witnessed  before  him. 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  make  myself  offensive  to  you,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  beg  you  to  forgive  such  extravagance  as  may  spring 
from  my  deep  feeling  on  the  subject." 


342  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"Will  Mr.  Minturn  kindly  give  us  his  scheme  ?  "  said  a  bland 
faced  gentleman  who  rose  in  the  audience. 

"  With  pleasure,"  Nicholas  responded.  "  I  would  like  to  see 
every  charitable  organization  existing  in  this  city,  including  my 
own  enterprise,  swept  out  of  existence.  I  would  like  to  see 
established  in  their  place  a  single  organization  whose  grand 
purpose  it  is  to  work  a  radical  cure  of  pauperism.  I  would 
like  to  see  the  city  government,  which  is  directly  responsible 
for  more  than  half  the  pauperism  we  have,  united  in  adminis- 
tration with  the  chosen  representatives  of  the  benevolence  of 
the  city,  in  the  working  out  of  this  grand  cure.  I  would  like 
to  see  the  city  divided  into  districts  so  small  that  one  man  can 
hold  in  each,  not  only  a  registry  of  every  family  living  in  it,  but 
obtain  and  preserve  a  knowledge  of  each  family's  circumstances 
and  character.  I  would  have  a  labor-bureau  in  every  district, 
in  connection  with  this  local  superintendent's  office.  I  would 
have  the  record  of  every  man  and  woman  even  more  complete 
than  any  that  has  ever  been  made  by  your  mercantile  agencies. 
I  would  have  such  vagrancy  as  we  find  illustrated  by  the  tramps 
and  dead-beats  who  swarm  about  the  city,  a  sufficient  crime  for 
condemnation  to  hard  labor  in  prisons  and  factories  built  for 
that  purpose.  I  would  make  beggary  on  the  street  a  misde- 
meanor punishable  by  imprisonment.  I  would  have  every 
helpless  person  understand  where  help  in  emergencies  can 
always  be  had  by  a  representation,  subject  to  immediate  and 
competent  examination.  I  would  see  the  matter  so  arranged 
that  a  premium  would  be  put  upon  truth,  and  a  ban  upon 
falsehood.  Temperance  and  intemperance  should  always  be 
considerations  in  dealing  with  the  poor.  There  is  no  limit  to 
the  benefits  which  such  an  organization  as  this  would  have  the 
power  to  inaugurate  and  perpetuate,  and,  gentlemen,  I  verily 
believe  that  under  its  intelligent  and  faithful  administration  we 
could  banish  beggars  from  the  streets,  introduce  a  new  era  of 
prosperity  and  virtue  among  all  the  suffering  poor,  and  save 
ourselves  forever  from  the  terrible  pauperization  that  curses 
and  almost  kills  the  cities  of  the  old  world." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  343 

It  was  a  great  scheme,  or  a  great  dream,  and  the  audience 
listened  to  it  in  profound  silence. 

"  Such,  roughly  sketched  and  with  but  few  details,  is  the  out- 
line of  a  plan  in  which  I  have  such  perfect  faith  that  I  am  wil- 
ling to  pledge  for  its  support  all  the  money  that  I  feel  at  liberty 
to  spare  from  my  fortune.  I  believe  in  it  so  entirely,  that  I 
should  be  willing  to  give  my  life  to  it.  No  argument  could 
heighten  my  conviction,  no  demonstration  could  make  me  surer 
oi  my  conclusion." 

A  curious  change  had  passed  over  the  audience  during  the 
quick  sketching  of  this  grand  scheme.  The  men  who  had  come 
in,  representing  various  organizations  and  enterprises,  were  at 
once  united  in  a  common  front  against  a  plan  which  would 
abolish  their  offices,  level  the  eminences  on  which  they  stood, 
and  not  only  subordinate  but  destroy  their  hold  upon  the  pub- 
lic. There  was  a  perfect  mutual  understanding  among  them  in 
a  moment. 

One  after  another  arose,  uttered  his  little  compliment  to  Nich- 
olas, expressed  his  conviction  that  the  people  were  not  ready 
for  so  sweeping  a  measure  as  this,  admitted  that  the  policy  of 
cure  had  not  yet  received  the  attention  which  its  importance 
demanded,  and  then  each  agreed  with  somebody  else  that  this 
great  army  of  laborers  in  the  field  of  public  beneficence,  fighting 
their  way  towards  one  great  end,  under  different  generals,  with 
different  motives  and  watchwords,  was  a  most  inspiring  sight. 
Sentiment  and  rhetoric  were  harnessed  together  to  draw  the 
dead  bull  out  of  the  arena,  and  flowers  were  tossed  upon  the 
carcass  as  it  disappeared. 

Nicholas  was  sick  at  heart.  He  had  seen  the  old,  shabby 
trick  of  attributing  to  the  people  the  lack  of  readiness  for  a  de- 
sirable reform  by  leaders  whom  such  a  reform  would  carry  out 
of  business  too  often  to  fail  to  gather  its  meaning.  He  nad 
been  complimented  and  tolerated  ;  but  the  scheme  from  which 
he  had  hoped  so  much,  and  to  which  he  was  willing  to  sacrifice 
so  much,  had  been  carefully  and  politely  pooh-poohed  out  of 
ch^  realm  of  possibilities. 


344  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  work  of  the  evening  was 
done ;  and  he  was  about  to  say  this  to  the  audience  before  him, 
when  an  old  gentleman  in  spectacles  arose,  and,  in  moving  a 
vote  of  thanks  to  the  young  man  to  whom  they  were  all  so  much 
indebted,  begged  the  privilege  of  saying  a  word  on  behalf  of 
his  Master. 

"  I  have  deeply  regretted,"  he  said,  "  that  in  the  whole  course 
of  the  discussion  I  have  heard  no  reference  to  the  religious 
aspect  of  the  matter  before  us.  Christianity,  as  I  apprehend 
it,  is  the  only  available  cure  for  the  evils  which  we  are  trying  to 
mitigate,  and,  so  far  as  we  may  be  able,  to  remove.  There  is 
a  great  harvest  before  us,  and  what  we  want  is  reapers.  We 
want  the  truth  preached  to  these  benighted  masses.  We  need 
to  have  the  quickening  motives  of  our  holy  religion  implanted 
in  these  dead  hearts  and  unworthy  lives.  When  we  accomplish 
this,  we  accomplish  the  only  radical  cure  that  seems  to  me  to 
be  possible." 

Nicholas  could  not  understand,  with  his  view  of  the  case,  why 
these  remarks  should  receive  the  secret  approval  and  open  ap- 
plause with  which  they  were  favored,  but  he  had  no  time  to 
reply  before  a  thin  man  with  a  thin  voice  rose  to  indorse  the 
speech,  in  all  its  length  and  breadth, — a  task  to  which  a  very 
small  man  was  quite  equal, — and  to  second  the  motion  of 
thanks. 

After  the  vote  of  thanks  was  rendered,  Nicholas  rose  and 
said : 

"  Gentlemen,  I  accept  your  thanks  for  all  that  they  mean, 
and  more  ;  and  you  will  confer  a  still  greater  favor  upon  me  if 
you  will  all  go  home  and  read  The  Parable  of  the  Sower.  I 
think  that  in  it  you  will  find  that  soil  is  quite  as  necessary  as 
seed, — indeed,  that  the  seed  is  thrown  away,  where  the  fowls  of 
the  air  pick  it  up,  unless  a  soil  is  prepared  in  advance.  I  re- 
gard an  able-bodied  pauper  as  beyond  the  reach  of  Christian 
motives.  You  might  as  well  preach  to  a  dog  as  to  a  liar  by 
profession,  which  is  what  every  able-bodied  pauper  is.  Chris- 
tianity is  for  men  and  women,  and  not  for  those  in  whom  the 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  345 

fact  and  sense  of  manhood  and  womanhood  are  lost.  Don't 
comfort  yourselves  with  the  idea  that  you  are  doing  what  you 
can  for  the  cure  of  pauperism  by  preaching  to  it.  I  have  a 
friend  who  believes  in  external  applications.  I  do  not  agree 
with  him  entirely,  but  if  I  am  to  choose  between  a  sermon  and 
a  -.awmde,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  rawhide  will  produce 
the  deepest  and  most  salutary  impression.  I  believe  in  Chris- 
tianity, but  before  I  undertake  to  plant  it  I  would  like  some- 
thing to  plant  it  in.  The  sowers  are  too  few,  and  the  seed  is 
too  precious  to  be  thrown  away  and  lost  among  the  thorns  and 
the  stones." 

Strangely  enough,  this  pertinent  speech,  with  its  very  patent 
truth,  received  quite  as  much  applause  as  the  speech  that  drew  it 
forth.  Nicholas  did  not  smile.  He  was  not  even  pleased.  He 
saw  that  his  audience  was  ready  to  be  moved  in  any  way  ex- 
cept that  in  which  he  had  tried  to  move  them  with  regard  to 
his  scheme.  That  scheme  was  dropped  by  unanimous  consent ; 
and  while  many  pressed  around  him  after  the  breaking  up  of 
the  meeting,  and  tried  to  assuage  his  sense  of  disappointment, 
he  was  sick  at  heart.  After  all  had  departed,  he  went  out  into 
the  street,  weary  and  despondent.  Whither  should  he  go  for 
comfort  ? 

Whither  does  any  young  man  go,  in  like  circumstances,  when 
there  waits  for  him  the  affectionate  and  sympathetic  welcome 
of  one  who  believes  in  him,  trusts  him  wholly,  and  never 
doubts  the  wisdom  of  his  schemes  any  more  than  she  doubts 
her  possession  of  his  heart  ? 

15* 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

IN   WHICH   NICHOLAS    AND   TALKING  TIM    CONTRIVE   TO   SECUKI 
THE    FRUIT  OF    "  THE   ATHENEUM  "    ENTERPRISE. 

THE  failure  of  Nicholas  to  interest  the  professional  and  othe/ 
philanthropists  of  the  city  in  his  grand  scheme  of  reformation 
and  cure,  did  not  leave  him  in  good  humor.  He  saw,  01 
thought  he  saw,  motives  at  the  basis  of  their  operations  which 
were  worthy  only  of  his  contempt.  He  failed,  at  least,  to  see, 
in  any  of  their  schemes,  a  recognition  of  the  necessity  of  radical 
measures.  It  was  true  that  many  a  faithful  missionary  of  the 
Christian  religion  was  endeavoring  to  change  character  and 
life.  It  was  true  that  great  efforts  were  making  to  implant 
good  principles  in  the  young,  and  to  direct  them  into  good 
habits.  It  was  true  that  great  good  was  done  to  the  poor  who 
were  not  paupers — men  and  women  who,  with  manhood  and 
womanhood  intact,  were  bravely  struggling  to  keep  their  heads 
above  water,  and  rear  their  children  to  virtue  and  industry. 
To  these  the  brotherly  hand  of  religion  was  indeed  a  helping 
hand.  To  every  angel  of  ministry  in  this  field,  he  could  heart- 
ily say  "  Godspeed !  "  and  wish  that  the  number  of  such  might 
be  multiplied  until  their  wings  should  whiten  the  air  in  every 
Uark  street  and  dismal  dwelling. 

The  city  presented  itself  to  him  in  the  figure  of  a  huge  sieve, 
over  whose  meshes  the  swollen  rich  and  the  well-fed  men  and 
women  walked  with  impunity  and  confidence,  but  into  which 
the  poor,  thin  men  and  women  were  momently  slipping,  some 
with  brave  and  successful  efforts  to  save  themselves  from  fall- 
ing through,  and  others  giving  up  for  lost,  and  weakly  losing 
hold  and  dropping  down  among  the  helpless,  inert  mass 
beneath.  It  was  this  mass,  diseased  in  body  and  mind,  with- 
out ambition,  beyond  the  reach  of  morality,  with  nothing  but 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  347 

palsied  hands  and  open  mouths,  that  engaged  his  mind  with  an 
awful  interest. 

Could  this  mass  be  lifted  into  the  light  again  ?  This  was  the 
great  question.  Were  the  existence  and  perpetuity  of  this 
mass  necessary  in  the  nature  of  things?  In  the  harmony  of 
the  social  instrument,  was  there  a  "wolf"  forever  to  be  hidden 
in  this  key  ? 

There  was  no  lack  of  benevolence — that  was  manifest  on 
every  hand  ;  but  there  was  not  only  a  lack  of  concert,  but  an 
utter  failure  to  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  case,  and  to  see 
anything  to  be  done  but  alleviation.  He  saw  a  great  weight  to 
be  lifted,  and  no  harmony  of  action  with  regard  to  it.  Every 
remedial  agent  was  "patchy."  There  were  hospitals  for  old 
men  and  hospitals  for  old  women.  There  were  "helping 
hands  "  for  this,  that,  and  the  other.  There  were  asylums  for 
orphans  and  half-orphans.  There  were  out-door  relief  and  in 
door  relief.  There  were  general  societies  that  were  not  only 
competing  with  each  other  for  the  privilege  of  distributing  the 
funds  of  the  benevolent,  but  invading  each  other's  fields. 

How  to  get  the  most  out  of  these  benevolent  organizations, 
was  the  great  question  among  the  pauperized  and  perjured 
masses.  They  were  besieged  on  every  hand  by  deceit,  by  in- 
genious and  persistent  lying,  by'  all  base  means  to  secure  what 
they  had  to  give.  They  were  looked  upon  as  the  repositories 
of  prey,  to  be  dragged  for  with  nets,  to  be  fished  for  with 
hooks,  to  be  caught  with  snares  and  weirs. 

A  most  significant  fact  which  had  fallen  under  the  notice  of 
Nicholas  was  that  pauperism  increased,  not  in  the  ratio  of  the 
public  distress,  but  in  the  proportion  of  the  public  provision  for 
it.  During  this  winter  of  unusual  severity,  a  benevolent  gen- 
rjeman  had  instituted  soup-kitchens  to  feed  the  starving ;  and 
a  week  had  not  passed  after  the  announcement  of  this  measure 
when  the  city  was  full  of  new  faces.  Tramps  from  all  the 
region  near  the  city  were  attracted  like  vultures  to  a  carcass. 
Worse  than  this,  this  benevolent  provision  had  developed  the 
pauper  spirit  among  those  who  had  the  means  of  living,  and 


H8  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

they  pressed  in  on  all  sides  with  lying  pretences  by  which  they 
might  save  their  money.  It  operated  not  only  as  a  premium 
on  lying,  but  a  reward  for  improvidence  and  avarice  alike. 

Almost  the  only  radical  work  that  he  saw  in  progress  was 
the  seizure  of  vagrant  and  ungovernable  children  by  authority, 
their  training  in  institutions,  and  their  apprenticeship  to  farmers 
in  different  parts  of  the  country.  This  was  something,  but  how 
little  it  was  among  so  many ! 

He  was  full  of  these  thoughts  and  reflections,  and  a  bitter 
sense  of  disappointment,  when  he  called  upon  Miss  Larkin,  at 
the  close  of  the  meeting  in  "The  Atheneum."  He  was  in- 
dignantly impatient  with  the  apathy  he  had  met  and  found  im- 
possible to  master.  He  had  gone  along  so  successfully  wit,l 
his  experiment,  he  had  demonstrated  the  truth  of  his  theory  so 
satisfactorily  to  himself,  that,  to  find  his  progress  barred  and 
his  scheme  whistled  down,  chafed  him  sorely.  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  room,  swinging  his  hands  in  his  distress,  and  ex- 
claiming : 

"  The  idiots !  the  idiots !  " 

"  Don't  fret,  Nicholas,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  calmly.  "  The 
world  was  not  made  in  a  day." 

"  Man  was  made  in  a  day,"  Nicholas  responded,  "  and  he 
can  be  made  again.  Why,  Grace,"  he  went  on,  "  give  me  the 
authority  and  the  money,  and  I  will  take  the  contract  to  cure 
three-quarters  of  the  pauperism  of  the  city  in  three  years.  The 
poor  we  have  always  with  us,  and  whenever  we  will  we  may  do 
them  good,  by  helping  them  to  help  themselves.  The  physically 
helpless  we  have  always  with  us.  The  sick  we  have  always  with 
us.  You  may  call  these  a  quarter  of  the  pauper  population,  if 
you  will ;  but  the  remaining  three-quarters  only  exist  by  a  crime 
— a  crime  of  their  own,  and  a  crime  of  society  that  tolerates 
them  for  a  day.  If  a  man  will  not  work,  neither  should  he  eat 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  an  evil  grow  in  this  new  country  until  it 
becomes  a  hopeless  institution — a  great  ulcer  upon  the  social 
and  political  body,  eating  toward  its  vitals  year  by  year,  with 
never  an  attempt  at  radical  treatment — with  nothing  applied 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  349 

but  emollients  and  sedatives.  Well,  it  just  makes  me  wild. 
Idiots !  " 

Miss  Larkin  gave  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Now  Nicholas,"  she  said,  "  I  protest.  Do  you  see  what  is 
coming  to  you  ?  Do  you  see  how  impatient  you  are  getting  to 
be,  and'  how  uncharitable  you  are  growing  ?  That  is  the  way 
with  reformers  the  world  over,  and  it  is  a  very  bad  way.  They 
butt  their  heads  against  the  public  apathy  and  misapprehension, 
and  it  hurts  them ;  and  then  they  stand  back  and  say,  '  idiots  ! ' 
Don't  do  it  any  more.  It  will  spoil  you.  Try  to  be  charitable 
toward  the  mistaken  and  selfish  as  well  as  toward  the  unfortun- 
ate and  the  vicious." 

The  calm  voice,  the  rational  and  Christian  reproof,  went 
straight  to  his  heart,  and  taking  a  seat  at  her  side,  he  said  : 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear  !  May  God  forgive  me  !  I  am  get- 
ting proud  and  willful,  I  suppose.  What  a  child  I  am  ! " 

"  One  word  more,  Nicholas,"  she  said.  "  Be  charitable  to- 
ward yourself.  Give  your  own  motives  a  fair  chance.  If  you 
don't,  they  may  die." 

The  quick  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  and  he  seized  her  hand 
and  kissed  it  as  he  said  : 

"  And  you  are  the  woman  who  proposed  to  deprive  me  of 
words  like  these,  and  an  influence  which  only  you  can  exert 
upon  me,  because  you  would  not  give  either  your  own  or  my 
motives  a  fair  chance  ! " 

Nicholas  left  Miss  Larkin  calmed  and  comforted,  grateful  for 
the  change  in  his  feelings,  and  grateful  for  the  words  that  had 
wrought  it. 

The  next  morning  as  he  issued  from  his  lodgings,  he  realized 
for  the  first  time  that  the  winter  which  had  been  so  full  of  inte- 
rest to  him,  and  so  crowded  with  action,  had  spent  itself,  and 
that  there  was  a  prophecy  of  spring  in  the  atmosphere.  The 
sparrows  were  chattering  and  bustling  at  his  feet ;  the  few 
clouds  in  the  sky  had  a  look  of  restfulness  and  peace,  as  if  the 
hard  work  of  the  year  were  done  ;  men  walked  with  unbuttoned 
coats ;  the  girls  he  met  looked  more  bright-eyed  and  beautiful : 


350  NICHOLAS  MINTURtf. 

the  buds  in  the  parks  seemed  to  have  swelled  in  the  night ;  and 
his  heart  responded  to  the  new  influence  with  a  joy  to  which  he 
was  unaccustomed.  The  fancy  came  to  him  that  the  sleeping 
year  had  waked,  but  still  kept  its  eyes  closed,  while  it  recalled 
some  great  and  delightful  dream. 

He  saw  but  little  of  the  ordinary  sights  of  Broadway  that 
morning,  for  the  mere  suggestion  of  spring  had  brought  back 
the  thoughts  of  his  home,  or  carried  him  forward  to  it.  The 
prospective  spring  had  become  impersonated  in  his  mind,  and 
wore  the  breezy  robe  and  bore  the  inspiring  features  of  the  wo- 
man of  his  love.  She  walked  the  broad  piazzas  leaning  on  his 
arm.  She  was  a  form  of  grace,  trailing  her  train  across  his 
velvet  lawns.  He  was  sitting  under  the  trees  with  her.  She 
not  only  interpreted  but  created  and  informed  the  beauty  of  the 
landscape.  To  his  susceptible  heart,  spring  and  Grace  Larkin 
were  one  1 

With  the  advent  of  spring,  however,  there  would  come  a  ces- 
sation, or  a  great  modification,  of  the  labors  of  the  winter,  in 
the  enterprise  which  had  so  engaged  his  enthusiasm.  The  lec- 
tures at  "  The  Atheneum  "  had  gone  steadily  on,  with  the  best 
results.  Jonas  Cavendish  had  kept  his  personal  hold  upon  the 
people  of  the  Beggar's  Paradise  ;  for  he  was  full  of  expe- 
dients, and  he  had  been  able  to  engage  specialists  who  supple- 
mented his  labor  by  interesting  lectures  and  experiments. 
There  was  really  a  new  spirit  in  the  district.  Men  and  women 
had  got  a  new  hold  upon  life.  There  were  stumbling  and  back- 
sliding, there  was  still  in  many  minds  a  weak  holding  on  to  the 
idea  of  being  helped,  or  of  getting  pay  for  being  good,  but,  after 
all  the  drawbacks  and  discounts,  there  was  indubitably  a  sum 
of  improvement  achieved. 

What  should  be  done  next  ?  How  should  this  sum  of  im- 
provement be  permanently  secured  ?  How  should  it  be  made 
seminal  and  productive  ? 

These  were  vexing  questions  to  Nicholas,  as  his  plans  would 
take  him  away  from  the  city  during  all  the  summer  months.  He 
was  revolving  these  questions  in  his  mind,  noticing  nothing 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  351 

around  him,  and  seeing  nobody,  when  his  ears  were  saluted 
with  the  familiar  greeting  : 

"  Say ! " 

"  Hullo,  Tim  !     How  are  you  this  pleasant  morning  ?  " 

The  pop-corn  man,  without  his  usual  burden,  paused  and 
shook  hands  with  Nicholas. 

'  3ay  !     I  wanted  to  see  you,"  said  Tim. 

"  We  are  near  Glezen's  office,"  responded  Nicholas,  "  and 
we'll  go  in  there  and  have  a  talk." 

Bob  Spencer,  the  new  office  boy,  heard  his  father's  voice  upon 
the  stairs,  ran  quickly  to  the  door,  seized  and  shouldered  his 
broom,  and,  as  the  new-comers  entered,  presented  arms  in  mil 
itary  fashion,  and  with  a  countenance  as  grave  as  that  of  a  gren- 
adier. 

"  What  does  this  little  monkey  mean  by  this?  "  inquired  Tim, 
who  was  suspicious  that  his  boy  was  overstepping  the  bounds 
of  propriety. 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  bit  of  nonsense,  contrived  by  our  friend  Jonas, 
for  amusement,"  said  Glezen.  "I  don't  mind  it." 

Jonas  was  scratching  away  at  his  desk,  with  a  quiet  smile 
upon  his  face. 

"  Jonas,"  said  Glezen,  "  put  him  through  his  manual." 

Bob  sprang  to  his  broom  again,  and  responded  to  the  words 
of  command  with  great  promptness  and  exactness,  while  the 
spectators  looked  on  with  much  amusement,  and  rewarded  the 
performance  with  cheers. 

"  Put  me  through  my  catechism,"  said  Bob,  who  was  ex- 
cited by  his  new  audience. 

Jonas  blushed.  He  had  amused  himself  with  Bob  when 
Glezen  was  absent,  but  he  had  not  expected  to  be  called  upon 
to  give  a  public  exhibition  of  his  pupil's  proficiency. 

"  Go  on,  Jonas,"  said  Glezen,  who  was  always  ready  for  any- 
thing that  promised  a  laugh. 

•'  Make  your  obeisance,"  said  Jonas. 

Bob  responded  with  a  profound  bow. 

"Who  is  the  greatest  man  living?"  inquired  Cavendish. 


352  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"Mr.  Montgomery  Glezen,"  said  Bob. 

"  Who  is  the  next  greatest  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Jonas  Cavendish." 

"  Who  is  the  worst  boy  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Bob  Spencer." 

"What  is  Bob  Spencer's  chief  duty?" 

"  To  keep  his  hands  and  face  clean,  and  show  proper  re» 
spect  to  his  superiors." 

"  Who  is  the  greatest  woman  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Miss  Jenny  Coates." 

"  What  is  the  greatest  reformatory  agency  known  to  man  ?" 

"  A  woman's  hand  on  a  boy's  ear." 

"  Make  your  bow,  sir." 

Bob  made  his  bow  with  profound  sobriety,  amid  vociferous 
laughter,  while  Cavendish  resumed  his  pen. 

Nicholas  noticed  with  great  amusement  and  with  more  in- 
terest than  he  would  have  been  willing  to  betray,  that  at  the 
mention  of  the  name  of  Miss  Coates  a  bright  blush  overspread 
Glezen's  face.  He  evidently  did  not  like  to  hear  her  name 
used  so  lightly  and  familiarly  by  his  employes,  and  he  grew  so- 
ber quicker  than  his  wont,  after  so  absurd  a  scene. 

"  Say  !  "  said  Tirn,  "  Mr.  Minturn  and  I  came  in  to  talk,  and 
I  should  like  to  say  what  I  have  to  say  before  you  all.  Are 
you  too  busy,  Mr.  Glezen?" 

"  No,"  responded  the  lawyer.     "  Go  on." 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  Tim,  "about  'The  Atheneum.' 
The  fact  is  those  people,  according  to  my  notion,  have  been 
fed  with  sugar-plums  about  long  enough.  I  can  see,  too,  that 
they  are  getting  restive.  They  have  been  helped,  but  they 
must  have  something  to  do.  They  have  been  taught  a  great 
deal,  bat  they  have  not  yet  been  taught  to  take  hold  and  carry 
on  this  enterprise  for  themselves." 

"  That  is  the  very  matter  that  has  been  passing  through  my 
mind  this  morning,"  said  Nicholas.  "  Now,  Tim,  what  have 
you  to  propose  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,"  Tim  responded,  tf  they  have  no  rende* 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  353 

vous,  where  they  can  meet,  keep  each  other  in  countenance, 
and  talk  over  matters.  They  need  organization,  and  they  need 
especially  to  feel  that  this  work  is  theirs,  and  that  they  are  per- 
sonally and  collectively  responsible  for  it.  They  need  to  feel 
that  they  are  of  some  consequence  in  the  world — in  their 
world,  at  least.  In  other  words,  they  need  to  be  committed  to 
reform  in  a  way  which  involves  their  personal  honor  and  their 
personal  influence." 

"  Tim,  you  are  a  wise  man,"  said  Glezen. 

"So  my  wife  thinks,"  Tim  replied,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  what  is  your  scheme  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  It  involves  money,"  said  Tim,  "  and  it  involves  me ;  and  if 
you'll  furnish  the  money  I'll  furnish  the  machinery." 

"  Let's  hear  what  it  is,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  You  know,"  Tim  resumed,  "  that  there  are  unoccupied 
rooms  under  'The  Atheneum,'  and  that  in  these  times  they 
can  be  had  at  a  very  modest  rent.  If  I  had  the  rooms,  I  could 
get  a  better  living  than  I  can  get  now.  I  could  take  care  of 
them,  give  the  most  of  them  to  public  use,  and  have  enough 
left  to  carry  on  a  little  trade  in  papers  and  periodicals,  and 
knicknacks  of  all  sorts.  We  could  have  social  parlors,  read- 
ing-rooms, a  coffee-room,  that  my  wife  and  daughter  could 
take  care  of,  and  we  could  make  it  a  pleasant  place  of  resort 
under  the  control  of  an  association,  the  president  of  which  I 
see  at  the  desk  yonder,"  (pointing  to  Jonas  Cavendish). 

All  looked  at  Jonas,  whose  eyes  kindled  at  the  thought  of 
his  new  dignity. 

"Tim,  it  seems  very  practicable,  and  very  desirable,"  said 
Nicholas.  "  What  do  you  think,  Glezen?" 

"  The  only  thing  to  be  done." 

"Let's  do  it,  Tim,"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  promptly  rising. 
"  Let's  fix  the  matter  to-day.  It  will  cost  me  more  money  than 
I  feel  able  to  spare  just  now,  but  it  is  throwing  good  money 
after  good,  in  this  case.  It  will  secure  the  original  invest- 
ment" 

Before  night,  Nicholas  and  Tim  Spencer  had  canvassed  tht 


354  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

whole  matter.     They  had  not  only  surveyed  and  apportioned 
the  rooms  to  their  purposes,  but  had  hired  them  for  a  year. 

The  regular  weekly  meeting  at  "The  Atheneum"  occurred 
on  the  following  evening.  The  house  was  full  to  overflowing, 
a  special  notice  having  been  posted  during  the  day,  which 
stated  that  important  communications  were  to  be  made. 

The  lecture  was  briefer  than  usual,  and  then  the  lecturer 
made  way  for  "one  whom,"  as  Mr.  Cavendish  expressed  it, 
"  the  people  were  always  glad  to  see." 

There  was  something  about  this  occasion  which  touched 
Nicholas  very  powerfully.  His  ingenuities,  his  purse,  his 
labor,  his  sensibilities,  had  been  under  constant  tribute  for  many 
months.  As  he  looked  out  upon  his  interested  and  grateful 
audience,  eager-hearted  to  learn  what  he  had  to  say  to  them, 
and  realized  that  he  had  their  friendship  and  their  confidence, 
and  then  recalled  the  last  audience  that  he  met  in  the  hall, 
with  its  questions  and  doubts  and  protests,  he  was  almost  over- 
come. It  was  a  minute  before  he  could  speak,  and  when  he 
opened  his  lips,  it  was  not  with  the  usual  form  of  address. 

"  My  brothers  and  sisters,"  he  said,  "  I  am  touched  by  a 
strange  sense  of  weariness  to-night.  I  have  been  at  work  all 
this  winter  for  you,  and  others  who  are,  like  you,  in  poverty  and 
misfortune.  I  began  with  great  hope  and  energy,  and  I  have 
realized  all  my  hopes  with  regard  to  you  ;  but  to-night,  after  a 
winter  of  observation,  I  feel  so  overwhelmed  with  the  work  to 
be  done  in  this  city,  and  the  incompetency  of  the  means  for  its 
accomplishment,  that  I  acknowledge  to  you  that  I  need  your 
help.  If  I  could  take  you  all  by  the  hand,  and  hear  you  say 
to  me  that  I  have  done  you  good,  and  that  you  are  glad  I  came 
to  you,  it  would  rest  me,  I  am  sure.  I  have  had  help  of  vari- 
ous sorts  from  more  than  one,  but  I  feel  now,  and  I  have  felt 
for  a  good  many  davs,  that  I  must  have  your  help.  The  spring 
is  almost  here,  and  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  the  meet, 
ings,  that  have  been  so  full  of  pleasure  and  instruction  for  us 
all,  must  be  suspended.  What  will  you  do  then  ?" 

"  God  knows  !  "  said  a  deep  voice  in  the  audience. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  355 

"Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  "and  so  do  I." 

Then  he  went  over  in  detail  the  plan  that  had  been  devised 
and  initiated  by  Tim  Spencer  and  himself.  The  broaching  of 
the  new  project  and  the  intense  interest  with  which  it  was 
received,  relieved  his  weariness,  and  he  became  eloquent  upon 
the  possibilities  of  the  new  enterprise. 

"  This  affair  is  yours,"  he  said.  "  The  rooms  are  yours  for  a 
year.  Perhaps,  when  the  lease  expires,  you  will  be  able  to 
renew  it  for  yourselves.  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy  in  them 
— that  they  will  be  the  means  of  bringing  you  closer  together 
and  strengthening  you.  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  your 
organization.  Choose  the  best  men,  and  choose  them  from 
among  yourselves.  There  are  those  among  you  who  are  quite 
capable  and  quite  worthy  of  authority ;  and,  above  all  things, 
stand  together.  As  soon  as  I  finish  what  I  have  to  say  to  you, 
I  shall  leave  you  to  make  your  organization  and  discuss  your 
plans.  I  put  the  responsibility  upon  you,  feeling  sure,  from  the 
friendliness  of  the  faces  I  see  before  me,  that  you  wish  to 
please  and  satisfy  me. 

"  Before  I  leave  you  to-night," — and  Nicholas  hesitated  and 
his  eyes  grew  moist, — "  I  have  a  word  to  say  upon  a  topic  con- 
cerning which  I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  speak.  The 
subject  is  a  very  sacred  one  to  me.  It  is  surrounded  by  a 
great  many  precious  associations.  It  is  so  identified  with  my 
secret  satisfactions,  my  source  of  inspiration  and  the  history  of 
my  childhood,  it  is  so  profoundly  important  to  the  progress  of 
the  world,  it  is  so  sweetly  wonderful  in  its  nature  and  results, 
it  is  so  marvelous  in  its  promises  for  and  prophesies  of  the  future, 
it  has  so  much  in  it  for  you,  that  I  can  hardly  trust  my  tongue 
to  mention  it. 

"  If  you  love  me,  or  believe  in  me,  don't  turn  away  from  me 
until  you  have  heard  me  through.  I  know  that  this  subject  has 
sometimes  been  presented  to  you  as  a  threat,  sometimes  in  the 
form  of  cant,  sometimes  in  the  form  of  blatant  or  flippant 
declamation,  sometimes  as  an  appeal  to  your  selfish  desire  faf 
safety,  but  don't  turn  away  from  it." 

i 


356  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

The  people  saw  that  Nicholas  was  in  a  new  mood,  and  that 
what  he  was  saying  came  from  the  very  depths  of  his  heart. 
They  were  as  silent  as  if  they  were  anticipating  the  appearance 
of  some  wonderful  spectacle  behind  the  speaker. 

"Nearly  two  thousand  years  ago,"  Nicholas  went  on,  "a 
babe  was  born  in  a  manger  in  the  town  of  Bethlehem,  in  the 
province  of  Judaea.  Some  shepherds,  watching  their  flocks, 
were  startled  by  a  great  glory  in  the  midnight  sky,  and  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  angel,  who  told  them  what  had  happened  and 
where  to  find  the  child ;  and  there  were  wings  all  about  them, 
and  there  was  strange  music  in  the  air.  No  child  of  yours 
was  ever  humbler  born ;  no  woman  among  you,  in  your  hour 
of  sickness  and  trial,  was  ever  more  meanly  entertained  than 
was  this  mother  upon  her  bed  among  the  cattle. 

"Well,  the  people  in  those  days  had  very  strange  ideas  of 
God.  They  thought  he  was  hard  and  fierce,  and  they  killed 
cattle  and  sheep  and  burnt  them  upon  altars  as  sacrifices  to 
their  deity ;  but  a  song  was  sung  in  heaven  that  night,  which 
was  heard  upon  the  earth,  and  the  words  were  '  Good  will  to- 
ward men.'  God  had  been  misunderstood.  He  had  a  fatherly 
affection  for  his  suffering  children,  and  the  angels  put  it  into 
words,  which  swept  over  the  hills  like  the  sunrise  ;  and  they 
have  been  echoed  all  around  the  world.  '  Good  will  toward 
men  ! '  God,  who  made  this  wonderful  world  and  all  the  stars, 
and  made  us,  too,  means  well  toward  us.  He  loves  us,  and 
desires  that  we  may  not  only  be  good  but  happy. 

"  Now  this  babe,  the  birth  of  whom  gave  occasion  to  the  ex- 
pression of  these  words,  was  born,  as  I  have  told  you,  very  poor ; 
and  he  grew  up  to  manhood,  a  poor  working  man.  He  might 
have  been  born  among  you.  One  of  you  women,  here,  might 
have  been  his  mother,  if  you  had  lived  at  that  time.  You 
might  have  had  him  in  your  arms,  and  tended  and  reared  one 
who  proved  to  be  the  greatest  and  best  man  who  ever  lived. 
Some  of  you  men  might  have  worked  at  the  bench  with  him, 
for  he  was  a  carpenter,  and  you  might  have  heard  him  talk,  and 


NICHOLAS  M1NTURN.  357 

gone  home  x>  your  wives  and  reported  his  conversations,  and 
told  them  how  good  and  how  remarkable  he  was.  He  belonged 
to  your  class.  He  was  the  unspeakable  gift  of  poverty  to  wealth. 
He  made  poverty  forever  dignified,  and  if  there  are  any  people 
in  this  world  who  ought  to  be  his  lovers  and  followers,  they  are 
the  working  poor. 

"  Well,  the  babe  grew  up,  and  became  a  great  teacher.  He 
worked  miracles.  He  healed  the  sick  ;  he  fed  the  hungry  ;  he 
forgave  the  erring;  and  wherever  he  went,  he  preached  the 
good  news  that  God  had  nothing  but  good-will  toward  the 
world.  His  life  and  character  were  spotless.  He  had  the 
same  temptations  that  we  have,  but  he  resisted  them.  He  was 
oftentimes  without  where  to  lay  his  head,  but  he  did  not  com- 
plain. He  never  forgot  his  class  and  his  companions  in  pov- 
erty, and  to  them,  especially,  he  preached  the  good  tidings. 

"  The  mistaken  men  of  that  day  persecuted  and  killed  him. 
They  did  not  know  what  they  were  doing.  They  were  blinded 
by  their  old  ideas,  and  envious  of  his  influence.  But  a  little 
while  afterward,  he  rose  from  the  dead.  He  talked  with  his 
friends ;  he  showed  himself  to  them  openly ;  and  then,  in  the 
presence  of  a  multitude  of  them,  he  rose  up  out  of  their  sight. 

"  That  is  the  story,  and  I  believe  it.  You  have  learned 
something  of  the  littleness  of  the  world.  It  is  only  one  among 
more  than  you  can  count ;  and  does  it  seem  so  very  strange  to 
you  that  God  should  make  him — the  only  sinless  man  who  ever 
lived — the  king  of  his  race,  the  man  who  lived  and  died  for  it  ? 
Does  it  seem  strange  to  you  that  he  should  have  been  raised 
from  the  dead  and  placed  in  the  charge  of  humanity, — to  be  its 
teacher,  its  inspirer,  its  leader,  its  ruler  ?  Doesn't  it  look  as  if 
he  were  king  ?  See  how,  for  almost  two  thousand  years,  he  has 
entered  into  the  world's  civilization  !  Think  of  the  uncounted 
millions  of  dollars  that  have  gone  to  the  building  of  Christian 
churches,  all  over  the  world  !  Think  of  the  numberless  lives 
that  have  expended  themselves  in  Christian  service  !  Think 
of  the  poems,  the  hymns,  the  pictures,  the  architecture,  that 
he  has  inspired  !  Think  of  the  millions  of  good  lives  that  have 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

been  shaped  upon  the  model  of  his,  and  the  millions  of  dying 
men  who  have  gone  out  of  life  with  triumph  in  their  hearts, 
and  a  vision  of  the  King  in  theu  eyes  ! 

"  Good  friends,  dear  friends, '  and  Nicholas  leaned  forward 
upon  his  desk,  "  what  brought  me  to  you  ?  Had  you  any 
money  to  give  me  ?  Had  you  any  honor  to  give  me  ?  I  came 
simply  in  obedience  to  the  command  of  my  King.  He  told 
me  that  he  was  one  with  .the  poor,  and  that  if  I  would  do  the 
smallest  of  them  the  smallest  service,  I  should  do  that  service 
to  him.  You  do  not  know  it, — you  have  not  thought  of  it, — 
but  Jesus  Christ  is  looking  at  me  out  of  your  eyes  to-night,  and 
there  is  no  service  that  I  can  render  you  that  I  do  not  render 
him. 

"  But  I  did  not  come  here  to  preach.  I  did  not  intend  to 
say  as  much  as  I  have  said  already,  although  it  has  seemed 
necessary  to  say  it  in  order  to  get  at  a  proposition  I  have  to 
make,  and  to  prepare  you  for  it.  To  me,  religion  is  a  very  sim- 
ple thing.  To  be  a  Christian  is  to  be  like  Christ.  I  have  no  taste 
for  talking  about  the  machinery  of  the  theologians,  or  about 
belief  in  this,  that,  and  the  other.  There  are  two  or  three 
things  that  I  know.  You  need  help.  Many  of  you  have  deter- 
mined upon  industrious  habits  and  reformed  lives,  and  you 
need  more  help  than  I  can  give  you,  to  enable  you  to  perse- 
vere. Now,  mark  you,  I  don't  believe — I  know — that  if  you 
will  take  Christ  for  your  pattern,  if  you  will  adopt  his  unselfish 
motives,  if  you  will  give  him  your  trustful  affection  and  allegi- 
ance, and  consent  to  be  led  by  him,  you  cannot  go  wrong. 
He  will  take  care  of  you  in  this  world  and  the  next  He  was 
poor,  and  he  can  sympathize  with  you.  He  was  tempted,  and 
he  can  help  you,  and  he  can  whisper  to  you  in  your  darkest 
hour,  '  God  means  well  by  you.'  No  matter  how  troubled 
you  may  be,  those  two  words  :  '  good-will,'  '  good-will,'  will 
always  be  breathed  upon  your  hearts,  as  a  balm  and  a  benedic- 
tion. 

"  Now  I  ask  you  the  question  .  Will  you  have  this  religion 
of  Jesus  Christ  taught  to  yourselves  and  your  children  ?  I  can 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  359 

lay  my  hands  upon  a  hundred  men  and  women,  devoted  to  their 
Master  and  yours,  who  are  willing  to  come  here  and  teach  you 
and  your  little  ones.  You  can  have  preaching  in  this  hall  every 
Sunday,  if  you  will  j  but  I  force  nothing  upon  you.  If  you  do 
not  want  this,  it  shall  not  come.  I  stand  between  you  and  all 
intrusion  of  offensive  instructions  and  influences ;  but  I  am  sure 
that  you  do  not  wish  to  have  your  children  bred  as  you  have 
been." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  a  voice  in  the  audience. 

Nicholas  saw  that  his  audience  were  very  deeply  affected. 
Indeed,  it  was  the  consciousness  that  they  were  sympathetically 
absorbed  in  what  he  was  saying  which  inspired  his  utterances. 
Women  were  weeping,  and  many  a  strong  man  was  unable  to 
control  his  emotions.  Some  of  the  men  sat  hard  and  determined 
in  their  skepticism,  or  their  crime — men  who  had  not  yet  got 
beyond  the  motive  of  bettering  their  worldly  condition,  or  who 
had  come  in-,  inspired  only  by  curiosity. 

"Will  you  have  Christian  instruction  for  yourselves?"  in- 
quired Nicholas.  "All  who  desire  it  will  be  kind  enough  to 
stand  upon  their  feet." 

Every  woman  in  the  house  rose,  without  hesitation.  A  few 
men  stood  up,  here  and  there,  but  the  majority  kept  their  seats, 
while  two  or  three  left  the  hall. 

"  Will  you  have  Christian  instruction  for  your  children  ? 
Inform  me  by  the  same  sign." 

The  entire  congregation  rose  to  their  feet. 

Nicholas  smiled,  and  said : 

"  Thank  you  !"  adding  :  "  A  school  for  children  will  be  or- 
ganized in  this  room  next  Sunday  morning,  at  nine  o'clock. 
Classes  for  adults  will  also  be  formed  at  the  same  hour,  if  they 
will  attend'." 

"  And  now,"  said  Nicholas,  "  I  leave  you  to  yourselves,  con- 
gratulating you  on  your  new  privileges  and  prospects.  You 
have  done  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  I  am  grateful  for  it." 

As  he  turned  to  leave  the  stage,  the  audience,  by  a  common 
impulse,  rose  to  their  feet,  clapping  their  hands  ;  and  with  the 


360  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

words,  "  God  bless  you ! "  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  vanished 
through  the  wing  of  the  stage,  and  left  the  building. 

A  great  load  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart,  and  a  great  peace 
had  taken  possession  of  it.  The  conviction  had  been  pressed 
upon  him  more  and  more,  for  several  weeks,  that  he  had  only 
lifted  his  charge  a  single  step  toward  reformation,  and  that 
moral  and  religious  instruction  and  active  responsibility  were 
necessary  to  perfect  the  cure  which  had  been  so  successfully 
begun.  He  had  apprehended  the  fact  that  his  work  was  run- 
ning out  into  nothingness,  that  it  must  be  supplemented  by 
something  of  a  different  character,  and  that,  somehow,  by  some 
new  and  vital  motive,  these  men  and  women  must  be  bound 
together  in  mutual  sympathy  and  mutual  service. 

And  now  the  way  was  clear.  Now  they  had  a  common 
home,  with  common  privileges  and  common  responsibilities. 
They  had  asked  for,  or  manifested  their  willingness  to  receive, 
precisely  the  things  they  needed.  He  had  left  them  at  perfect 
freedom,  organizing  and  contriving  for  themselves,  with  a  great 
trust  and  a  great  enterprise  on  their  hands.  More  than  he 
knew,  or  could  realize,  he  had  reinstated  them  in  independent 
manhood  and  womanhood ;  for  before  they  separated  that 
night,  after  a  debate  that  would  have  surprised  him  if  he  could 
have  listened  to  it,  they  were  an  organic  community,  with  con- 
scious possibilities  of  development,  and  bright  anticipations  and 
glowing  ambitions. 

The  happiest  morning  that  Nicholas  had  ever  seen  was  that 
of  the  following  Sunday,  when  he  found  "  The  Atheneum  "  full 
of  children,  supplemented  by  a  generous  sprinkling  of  adults, 
appointed  with  teachers,  and  all  the  necessary  machinery  of  in- 
struction. "The  Larkin  Bureau"  was  all  there,  including 
Miss  Larkin  herself,  who,  after  her  long  helplessness,  was  once 
more  engaged  in  her  much-loved  work.  It  is  possible  that  this 
fact  had  something  to  do  with  the  satisfaction  that  shone  in  the 
eyes  of  Nicholas  as  he  observed,  or  mingled  with,  the  noisy  and 
happy  throng. 

Before  the  week  expired,  Tim  Spencer  had  installed  himself 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  361 

and  his  family  in  the  rooms  under  the  hall,  and  busy  hands  had 
brought  the  public  apartments  into  readiness  for  occupation. 
The  interest  that  was  centered  upon  these  preparations  was  full 
of  promise  for  the  future.  The  Beggar's  Paradise  was  all  alive 
with  the  matter.  They  talked  of  it  in  their  homes.  They 
visited  or  hung  around  the  place  at  night.  They  stole  into  the 
rooms  during  their  brief  noonings.  It  was  all  for  them.  They 
were  charmed  by  it ;  they  were  proud  of  it.  They  infected  the 
whole  neighborhood  and  all  their  associates  with  their  enthu- 
siasm ;  and,  on  the  evening  of  the  grand  opening,  Tim  Spencer 
and  his  family  were  quite  overwhelmed  with  the  demands  upon 
their  space  and  their  modest  entertainment 

16 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

MR.    BENSON   IS   SURPRISED    BY    A   RUN    UPON    HIS    BANK,    AJSE 
NICHOLAS    MAKES   A   VERY   IMPORTANT   DISCOVERY. 

THE  affairs  of  Miss  Larkin  were  transferred  with  remarkable 
ease  to  the  hands  of  Mr.  Glezen.  It  was  with  a  measure  of 
regretful  hesitation  that  she  cut  herself  loose  from  her  old  guar- 
dian ;  but  the  step  was  insisted  on  by  Nicholas,  who  was  sure 
that  he  was  on  the  road  to  immediate  ruin  and  disgrace.  He 
had  not  for  a  moment  relinquished  his  conviction  that  "  the 
model  man "  had  received  and  still  held  his  own  stolen  prop- 
erty, and  that  at  some  time,  in  some  way,  his  guilt  would  un- 
mistakably be  discovered. 

Why  Mr.  Benson  should  surrender  his  trust  so  willingly  was 
not  apparent  to  any  but  the  young  men  who  knew  him  best. 
Glezen  and  Nicholas,  however,  had  their  own  opinions,  based 
on  their  knowledge  of  his  history  and  his  character.  He  un- 
doubtedly wished  to  placate  Nicholas,  and  remove,  so  far  as  he 
could,  that  young  man's  motives  for  his  persecution.  Mr.  Ben- 
son had  become  aware,  in  some  way,  of  the  new  relations  that 
existed  between  Nicholas  and  his  ward,  and  he  wished  to  cut 
loose  from  all  association  with  the  pair,  in  a  way  that  would 
leave  upon  them  a  pleasant  impression.  The  transfer  had  been 
made  in  Glezen' s  office,  and  Mr.  Benson  had  not  only  been 
very  dignified  and  bland  during  the  transaction,  but  somewhat 
effusive  in  his  expressions  of  pleasure  at  being  relieved  of  so 
grave  a  trust  in  so  dangerous  a  time.  He  even  went  so  far  as 
to  profess  his  gratification  that  he  had  the  privilege  of  passing 
his  trust  into  so  faithful,  friendly  and  competent  hands. 

The  young  men  had  no  difficulty  in  understanding  all  this. 
It  was  natural  and  characteristic  ;  but  there  was  another  mo« 
tive,  which  lay  under  the  surface,  that  was  not  so  easily  divined. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  363 

Mr  Benson  still  maintained  a  fondness  for  his  own  leputation. 
He  had  arrived  at  a  point  where  he  was  conscious  that  he  could 
not  save  it  whole.  He  knew  that  the  time  was  coming  when 
the  poor  would  curse  him,  and  hold  even  his  name  in  execra 
tion ;  but  Miss  Larkin  was  not  poor,  and'  he  would  do  some- 
thing that  would  be  laudable  and  gratefully  remembered  in  the 
circle  to  which  she  and  her  friends  belonged.  To  separate  her 
fortunes  from  his  own,  when  he  became  sure  that  his  own  were 
falling,  if  not  hopeless,  would  be  an  act  sufficiently  manly  and 
Christian  in  the  seeming  to  hang  partisan  praise  upon,  among 
those  whose  good  opinion  he  most  desired. 

It  was  already  whispered  about  that  there  was  something 
wrong  with  The  Poor  Man's  Savings  Bank.  There  were  grave 
suspicions  of  "  irregularities  "  connected  with  that  institution, 
but  Mr.  Benson's  reputation,  although  not  so  high  as  it  was, 
was  still  regarded  as  an  honorable  one.  People  knew  him  to 
be  embarrassed,  but  they  gave  him  credit  for  honesty.  Was 
he  not  in  his  pew  at  church  every  Sunday?  Was  he  not 
punctilious  in  his  observance  of  all  the  proprieties  of  his 
position  ? 

One  sunny  morning,  more  spring-like  than  any  that  had  pre- 
ceded it,  Nicholas  and  Glezen  joined  each  other  in  their  walk 
toward  the  lower  part  of  the  town.  It  was  soon  after  the  events 
narrated  in  the  last  chapter,  and  after  Glezen  had  assumed  the 
charge  of  Miss  Larkin' s  affairs.  They  were  talking  upon  busi- 
ness, and  discussing  their  plans  for  the  summer,  when,  as  they 
were  passing  one  of  the  principal  thoroughfares  that  crossed 
Broadway,  their  eyes  were  attracted  by  a  crowd  that  revealed 
itself  down  the  street  at  their  left.  Both  stopped  and  both  ex- 
claimed :  "  That  is  Benson's  bank." 

It  was  before  the  hour  of  opening,  and  it  was  not  "  quarter- 
day."  They  could  come  to  but  one  conclusion,  viz.,  that  there 
was  to  be  a  run  upon  the  bank  that  day.  New  York  was  but  a 
whispering  gallery.  What  had  been  quietly  spoken  in  count- 
ing-rooms and  palaces  had  been  heard  in  the  hovels  and  the 
stews.  The  wind  which,  with  one  wing,  had  brushed  the  clouds, 


364  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

had,  with  the  other,  rustled  the  leaves  of  the  poor  man's  bank 
book. 

They  turned  their  steps  toward  the  crowd  by  a  common  im- 
pulse, and  noticed  before  them,  walking  with  strong,  determined 
steps,  the  familiar  form  of  Mr.  Benson.  Checking  themselves, 
and  falling  slowly  behind,  they  saw  him  make  his  way  through 
the  constantly  augmenting  mass.  They  heard  the  murmurs  of 
the  multitude  as  it  parted  to  give  him  passage,  and  then,  when 
he  reached  the  topmost  step  of  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  door, 
they  saw  him  turn  and  face  the  cloud  of  distrust  that  had  gath- 
ered around  his  beloved  and  long-honored  institution. 

He  presented  a  bold  and  dignified  front.  Lifting  his  hat, 
and  wiping  his  brow,  he  looked  calmly  around.  His  well- 
dressed  figure,  revealed  by  the  morning  sun,  his  strong  features, 
his  questioning,  pitying,  almost  scornful,  look,  as  his  eye  took 
in  the  scene  before  him,  were  more  than  those  near  him  could 
bear.  They  slunk  back,  and  hid  themselves  among  their  fel- 
lows, as  if  ashamed  to  be  identified. 

"My  friends,"  he  said  calmly,  but  with  a  voice  that  was 
heard  to  the  remotest  edge  of  the  crowd,  "  I  do  not  know  what 
this  means." 

"It  means  that  we  want  our  money,"  responded  a  far-off 
voice. 

"  Did  the  Poor  Man's  Savings  Bank  ever  cheat  one  of  you 
out  of  a  dollar  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Benson.  "  You  can  have  your 
money  if  you  want  it,  and  we  are  bound  to  give  it  to  you,  to 
the  last  dollar.  But  what  will  you  do  with  it  ?  You  will  wait 
for  a  week,  until  this  foolish  excitement  has  subsided,  and  then 
you  will  bring  it  back  to  us,  and  beg  us  to  take  it  again.  You 
make  us  all  this  trouble,  to  your  own  hurt  and  our  very  great 
inconvenience.  You  damage  the  credit  of  the  institution  in 
which  you  are  all  interested.  You  have  been  made  fools  of  by 
demagogues.  I  have  advised  a  great  many  of  you  :  have  you 
ever  been  injured  by  my  advice  ?  Now  let  me  advise  you 
again.  Go  home  to  your  business,  and  trust  my  word  that 
your  money  is  safe.  Go  home,  and  go  now." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  365 

He  looked  at  one  and  anotner,  and  one  and  another  went, 
until  it  seemed  as  if  the  power  of  the  man  were  quite  equal 
both  to  the  occasion  and  his  own  wishes. 

But  more  than  half  of  the  crowd  lingered.  He  saw  that  he  had 
failed,  and  as  he  turned  to  enter  the  door,  it  was  opened  by  an 
inside  hand,  and  he  passed  in,  closing  it  behind  him. 

As  it  still  lacked  half  an  hour  to  the  time  of  the  public  open- 
ing, Nicholas  and  Glezen  turned  away  and  resumed  their  walk. 

"There's  trouble  there,"  said  Glezen. 

"  Much  as  I  despise  that  man,  do  you  know  I  cannot  help 
admiring  him  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"  Yes,  I  admire  the  old  fellow  too,  and  bad  as  he  is,  I  pity 
him.  All  that  was  necessary  for  him  to  pass  through  life,  and 
pass  out  of  it,  with  a  spotless  name,  was  to  miss  the  circum- 
stances which  revealed  him  to  himself  and  others,  and  the 
temptations  which  the  hard  times  have  brought  to  him." 

"  It  makes  one  tremble  for  one's  self,"  said  Nicholas.  "  Who 
knows  what  unconscious  weaknesses  hide  within  him,  waiting 
for  the  betraying  touch  of  temptation  ?  " 

"Those  fellows  are  not  going  away,"  said  Glezen,  recurring 
to  the  scene  at  the  bank.  "  There's  going  to  be  a  run  there 
to-day,  and  a  heavy  one.  I  know  these  New  York  crowds,  and 
the  whole  batch  we  saw  there  will  come  back,  with  recruited 
numbers.  Well,  I  hope  for  their  sake  the  bank  can  stand  it, 
but  nobody  knows  what  will  happen." 

Glezen  arrived  at  his  office,  and  Nicholas  went  up  with  him. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day  ?  "  inquired  Glezen. 

"  I've  nothing  particular  on  hand.  I  want  to  hear  from  Ben- 
son's bank  again.  Perhaps  I'll  go  back  there,"  Nicholas  re- 
plied. 

"  Oh,  I'll  send  Bob  up  there.  Sit  down  here,  and  amuse  your- 
self in  some  way." 

Nicholas  amused  himself  for  awhile,  looking  down  upon  the 
throng  of  passengers  in  the  street.  Then  he  sat  down  and 
took  up  the  morning  papers ;  but  he  was  uneasy. 

"  Look  here,  Glezen  1 "  he  said,  "  I  am  going  round  to  the 


366  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Guild,  to  see  the  operations.  I  was  never  there  but  once,  and 
I  was  immensely  interested." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Glezen,  "  I'll  send  Bob  to  you  when  he 
returns,  and  you  may  trust  him  to  get  all  the  news  at  the  bank, 
with  interest  at  a  higher  rate  than  a  savings-bank  ever  pays." 

The  two  friends  separated  with  a  laugh,  and  Nicholas  made 
his  way  to  the  rooms  of  the  Guild,  which  he  found  thronged 
with  applicants  for  aid.  The  conductors  and  almoners  knew 
him,  and  invited  him  to  a  seat  inside  the  rails,  where  he  could 
witness  the  operations  at  his  leisure. 

It  was  a  distressing  scene,  in  comparison  with  which  the 
anxious  and  eager  crowd  which  he  had  just  left  at  Benson's 
bank  was  an  assemblage  of  kings.  They  were  thinly  clad  and 
shivering.  Many  of  them  were  known  to  the  disbursing  officers, 
and  had  lived  upon  the  pittances  doled  out  to  them  by  this  and 
kindred  institutions  all  winter.  There  were  wrecks  of  men  and 
wrecks  of  women.  There  were  pinched-looking  boys  and  girls. 
Each  had  a  story  of  want  and  suffering,  and  each  received,  with 
an  eagerness  which  had  no  apparent  flavor  of  gladness  in  it, 
the  gift  bestowed.  Each  story  bore  the  impress  of  familiar  use, 
and  was,  patently,  more  or  less  tinctured  with  falsehood. 
Some  went  away  with  promises  that  their  cases  should  have 
examination. 

Nicholas  was  intensely  absorbed  in  the  abject  tragedy  trans- 
piring before  his  eyes,  when  Bob  burst  into  the  door,  his  face 
glowing  and  his  eyes  ablaze  with  excitement.  He  was  behind 
the  crowd,  but  he  caught  sight  of  Nicholas,  and  at  the  top  of 
his  voice  exclaimed : 

"  Say,  Mr.  Minturn  !  There's  the  greatest  kind  of  a  run  on 
old  Benson's  bank.  Everybody  is  there.  Oh,  there's  a  thou- 
sand— there's  ten  thousand  people  there  !  The  street's  full ! 
You  never  saw  such  a  row !  They  are  knocking  each  other 
down,  and  they're  yelling — just  like  tigers!  It's  the  bulliest 
kind  of  a  row  !  " 

Nicholas  tried  to  stop  the  boy,  but  could  not  help  laughing 
at  his  apparent  enthusiasm. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  367 

"That  will  do  !  that  will  do,  Bob !  I  understand  it !  Hush  !  " 
said  Nicholas  rising,  and  trying  to  impress  his  injunction  by  a 
gesture. 

But  there  were  others  who  understood  it  beside  Nicholas. 
The  applicants  for  aid  ceased  from  their  story  telling,  and 
looked  with  strange  alarm  into  each  other's  faces.  Then  one 
and  another  quietly  made  their  way  out  of  the  door,  and  then 
came  a  general  stampede.  Not  five  of  the  miserable  crowd 
were  left  in  the  room.  The  officers  gathered  around  Nicholas, 
and,  looking  into  each  other's  faces,  they  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  It  is  too  bad,"  said  Nicholas,  on  whose  honest  mind  the 
perjuries  enacted  there  that  morning  produced  a  very  de 
pressing  effect. 

"  Say  !  you  fellers  haint  got  nothing  in  Benson's  bank,  have 
you  ? "  inquired  Bob  of  the  little  group  that  lingered  hesitat- 
ingly in  the  rear  of  the  room. 

"  Not  much  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  them. 

This  excited  another  laugh  among  the  officers,  one  of  whom 
said,  addressing  the  group  :  "  What  bank  do  you  deposit  in  ?  " 

The  men  looked  dumbfounded.  They  were  ashamed  of  the 
company  they  had  been  in,  and  realized  how  natural  the  sus- 
picions were  that  were  excited  concerning  themselves ;  but  they 
came  up,  told  their  stones,  and  received  with  little  questioning 
the  aid  they  desired. 

Nicholas  returned  to  Glezen's  office,  sick  at  heart,  thinking 
of  what  he  had  seen  at  the  Guild,  and  of  what  was  in  progress 
at  The  Poor  Man's  Savings  Bank.  He  found  Glezen  busy, 
and  then,  unable  to  control  his  uneasiness,  went  out,  and  bent 
his  steps  toward  Mr.  Coates's  warehouse,  hoping  to  find  the 
old  merchant,  for  whom  he  had  gradually  acquired  an  affection- 
ate respect,  at  leisure. 

As  he  entered  the  building,  the  first  man  he  met  was  his 
protege  Yankton,  busy  in  shipping  goods.  He  gave  him  a 
cordial  "  good-morning,"  and  was  about  leaving  him  to  go  back 
to  the  counting-room,  when  Yankton  said,  fumbling  his  pockets, 
"  I've  got  a  paper  here  which  may  be  of  importance  to  you, 


368  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

though  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I've  had  it  a  long  time, 
but  I  have  never  thought  to  hand  it  to  you." 

Thus  saying  he  handed  him  a  half-sheet  of  note  paper,  which 
Nicholas  quickly  unfolded. 

"Where  did  you  get  this ?"  inquired  Nicholas,  greatly  ex- 
cited. 

"In  the  pocket  of  the  coat  you  gave  me,"  replied  the  man. 
"  It  was  tucked  down  in  a  corner,  and  I  had  worn  the  coat  a 
month  before  I  found  it." 

As  he  talked,  Nicholas  looked  it  through,  and  then,  with- 
out stopping  to  place  it  in  his  pocket-book,  or  to  make  the 
call  upon  Mr.  Coates  which  he  had  intended  to  make,  or  even 
to  bid  Yankton  good  morning,  he  wheeled  and  left  the  store 
with  the  paper  tight  within  his  hand. 

Strange  that  he  had  not  thought  of  this  before  !  He  remem- 
bered it  now  with  entire  distinctness.  That  was  the  very  coat 
he  wore  when  he  called  on  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold  with  regard  to 
taking  the  bonds  to  New  York  for  registration  ;  and  he  had  put 
the  record  of  their  numbers  into  his  pocket  for  some  momen- 
tary reason,  or  through  some  vagrant  impulse,  and  there  it  had 
lain  forgotten  until  Yankton  discovered  it.  He  even  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  told  Mr.  Gold  that  he  had  taken  it,  after 
that  gentleman  had  returned  it  to  its  place.  He  walked 
straight  to  Glezen's  office,  possessed  by  his  first  excitement, 
and  unmindful  of  the  scenes  through  which  he  passed.  The 
lawyer  was  closeted  with  a  client,  but  Nicholas  made  his  way 
unbidden  into  the  room,  unfolded  the  paper,  and  laid  it  upon 
Glezen's  desk  before  his  eyes. 

"I  understand  it,"  said  Glezen  quietly,  "and  now  that  we 
may  be  sure,  go  directly  and  telegraph  for  Mr.  Gold.  Tell 
him  we  want  him  here  to-night.  I'll  keep  this,  Nicholas,  for, 
my  boy,  you  are  not  in  a  fit  condition  to  take  charge  of  it." 

Excusing  himself  from  his  client  for  a  moment,  Glezen  took 
the  paper  to  his  safe,  locked  it  in  and  came  back. 

Meantime  Nicholas  had  vanished  from  the  room,  and  was 
already  on  his  way  to  the  telegraph  office, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  369 

To  Nicholas,  the  day  which  opened  so  calmly,  was  long  and 
full  of  excitement.  He  could  only  walk  the  streets,  and  re 
volve  the  possibilities  connected  with  the  finding  of  the  long 
nussing  paper.  Three  or  four  times  he  found  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  crowd  around  Mr.  Benson's  bank,  watching  the 
gratified  faces  of  the  depositors  as  they  one  by  one  emerged 
from  the  door,  and  hearing  the  questions  propounded  to  them 
by  those  whose  turn  had  not  yet  arrived.  He  could  see  that 
all  looked  less  unhappy  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  still  the  money 
did  not  give  out.  He  noticed,  however,  that  the  proceedings 
were  very  leisurely,  and  that  not  half  of  the  depositors  assem- 
bled could  be  waited  upon  during  the  day. 

The  train  on  which  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold  was  expected  to  arrive 
was  not  due  until  nearly  evening,  but  Nicholas  was  at  the 
station  an  hour  before  the  time,  and  when,  at  last,  the  country 
lawyer  stepped  from  the  platform,  he  was  literally  received  by 
open  arms. 

Nicholas  took  him  to  his  rooms,  and  before  dinner  he  had 
told  him  the  whole  story  of  the  missing  bonds,  and  the  discovery 
of  the  lost  paper.  The  lawyer's  joy  and  excitement  were  hardly 
less  than  those  which  exercised  his  client.  The  loss  of  the  pa- 
per had  weighed  upon  him  like  a  great  personal  bereavement, 
and  now  that  his  skirts  were  clean,  he  was  as  happy  as  a  boy. 

After  dinner  they  found  Glezen  at  his  lodgings,  and  all  went 
to  his  office,  where  the  paper  was  fully  identified. 

"Nicholas,"  said  Mr.  Bellamy  Gold,  "what  did  I  tell  you 
about  the  model  man  ?  Eh  ?  " 

"  We  shall  find  out  whether  you  were  right,"  said  Nicholas. 

16* 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

JN   WHICH  THE   PUBLIC   BECOMES   THE   ENEMY  OF   MR.    BENSON 

AND   MR.    BENSON    COMES    INTO    FRIENDLY 

RELATIONS    WITH   A    DOG. 

MR.  BENSON,  with  a  very  quick  instinct,  apprehended  the  na- 
ture of  the  crisis  upon  which  he  had  entered.  He  knew  that 
the  bank  must  succumb  if  the  run  should  prove  to  be  formida- 
ble and  persistent.  He  knew,  too,  that  the  run  upon  the  bank 
would  involve  a  run  upon  himself,  and  that  that  run  would  meet 
with  a  disaster  sooner  than  the  one  which  threatened  his  insti- 
tution. People  had  for  several  weeks  ceased  to  deposit  with 
him,  and  all  who  called  upon  him  now  wanted  money.  It  was 
with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  had  been  able  to  meet  the 
demands  of  the  previous  few  weeks.  The  money  of  the  new 
depositors  was  all  gone  to  satisfy  the  old.  Property  had  been 
sold  at  a  sacrifice,  and  the  proceeds  of  that  were  gone.  It  was 
more  and  more  difficult  to  borrow  from  day  to  day,  and  lately 
he  had  felt  himself  obliged  to  deny  himself  to  callers.  He  sat 
alone  in  his  library,  doing  nothing,  but  too  "  busy  "  to  see  them, 
He  absented  himself  until  midnight  from  his  home.  He  re- 
sorted to  every  wretched  pretense  to  avoid  meeting  those  who 
had  trustingly  placed  their  all  in  his  keeping. 

To  his  proud  nature,  the  thought  that  his  family  should  wit 
ness  his  humiliation  was  a  galling  one.  He  had  been  so  infalli 
ble  in  his  own  house,  he  had  carried  himself  so  like  a  god  in 
the  presence  of  his  wife  and  children,  they  had  stood  in  such  fear 
of  him,  they  had  been  such  slaves  to  him,  they  had  so  abjectly 
believed  in  his  power,  and  their  attitude  toward  him  had  so 
gratified  and  flattered  him  in  his  selfish  and  proud  isolation,  that 
the  reflection  that  they  were  to  witness  his  humiliation  stung 
him  to  the  quick. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  371 

The  first  business  he  transacted,  on  his  arrival  at  the  bank 
on  the  morning  of  the  run  upon  that  institution,  was  the  writing 
of  a  letter  to  his  wife,  requesting  or  commanding  her — they 
were  interchangeable  words  in  his  vocabulary — to  take  her  chil- 
dren to  the  home  of  her  family  in  the  country,  and  to  remain 
there  until  she  should  hear  from  him.  She  was  to  leave  no  one 
behind  but  the  cook  and  man-servant.  His  messenger  would 
assist  her,  and  go  with  her  to  her  destination.  He  knew  there 
would  be  no  objection  to  the  arrangement.  It  did  not  make  him 
particularly  unhappy  to  know  that  she  would  be  glad  to  go. 
He  did  not  care  for  this.  He  was  only  anxious  that  Mr.  Ben- 
jamin Benson  should  not  be  regarded  with  wonder  and  pity  by 
those  who  had  believed  in  his  power  and  wisdom,  and  practi- 
cally acknowledged  his  unbounded  authority. 

Two  hours  after  this  note  left  his  hands,  Mrs.  Benson  and  her 
family  were  on  their  way, — not  greatly  troubled  by  what  they 
were  leaving  behind  them, — pleased  and  excited  by  the  pros- 
pect before  them. 

As  the  doors  of  the  bank  were  opened,  and  the  throng  pressed 
in,  Mr.  Benson,  and  the  officers  and  clerks  regarded  them  with 
a  degree  of  merriment  quite  unusual  in  that  institution.  It  was 
a  huge  joke.  They  laid  out  their  money  in  massive  piles,  in 
sight  of  the  crowd,  went  at  their  work  leisurely,  and  at  last  set- 
tled down  to  their  day's  doings. 

It  did  not  seem  to  be  so  much  of  a  joke  when  a  little  trio  of 
bank  commissioners  entered,  and  were  politely  invited  into  the 
consulting-room  by  Mr.  Benson. 

What  passed  between  Mr.  Benson  and  the  board  of  authority 
was  not  known  outside,  but  it  was  not  calculated  to  assure  the 
president.  In  revealing  the  assets  of  the  bank,  and  the  shame- 
ful malfeasance  of  its  officers,  as  he  was  obliged  to  do  before  the 
day  closed,  he  was  compelled,  in  order  to  justify  the  loan  that 
had  been  made  to  himself,  -  to  exhibit  the  securities  he  had 
pledged.  As  thorough  an  examination  into  the  affairs  of  the 
bank  as  could  be  made  in  a  single  day  was  made,  and  when,  at 
last,  the  doors  were  closed,  and  the  run  of  the  day  was  over 


372  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

and  the  commissioners  with  grave  faces  had  retired,  Mr.  Benson 
realized  that  the  end  was  coming  fast.  What  the  morrow  would 
bring  forth,  the  commissioners  did  not  tell  him,  but  he  foresaw 
it  with  trembling. 

As  the  depositors  were  pressed  out  of  the  ante-room  and 
pressed  back  by  the  closing  door,  with  the  assistance  of  police- 
men, a  menacing  shout  of  rage  went  up  from  the  disappointed 
assemblage,  some  of  whom  had  stood  in  the  street  without  food 
all  day.  Not  an  officer  dared  to  stir  from  the  bank,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  police  had  cleared  the  street  and  sent  the  people 
home,  that  the  imprisoned  men  were  released. 

Instead  of  returning  to  his  house,  Mr.  Benson  took  a  cab 
and  went  to  a  distant  restaurant  of  the  highest  sort  for  his  din- 
ner. There,  at  least,  he  should  be  beyond  the  contact'of  the 
crowd  he  dreaded.  But  there,  alas !  everybody  seemed  to 
know  him.  The  waiter  at  his  table  called  him  "Mr.  Ben- 
son." People  were  whispering  together,  and  casting  curious 
glances  at  him.  The  fact  that  he  was  there  was  strange  to 
them. 

A  thought  occurred  to  him. 

"  Bring  me  an  evening  paper,"  he  said  to  the  waiter. 

The  paper  was  brought,  and  under  startling  headings  he  read 
the  doings  of  the  day  at  his  bank.  Worse  than  this,  he  found 
stated  with  wonderful  accuracy  the  condition  of  the  institution. 
Where  the  information  had  come  from,  he  could  not  guess; 
but  somebody  had  betrayed  him,  and,  undoubtedly,  in  a  hun- 
dred thousand  homes  at  that  moment,  his  name  was  a  synonym 
of  dishonor. 

His  appetite  was  gone.  He  called  for  his  bill,  discharged  it, 
and  went  out  upon  the  street.  Whither  should  he  go  ?  Not 
homeward,  for  he  had  a  vision  of  a  little  crowd  of  anxious 
creditors,  waiting  at  the  door  for  his  coming — stalwart  working- 
men  who  had  confided  their  savings  to  him — widows  in  their 
weeds  who  had  gone  to  him  as  a  Christian  protector,  and 
placed  all  their  worldly  possessions  in  his  keeping — orphans 
who  had  lost  their  petty  patrimony  through  his  treachery.  No, 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  373 

not  homeward  until  an  hour  should  arrive  that  would  drive  the 
haunting  specters  to  their  sleepless  pillows  ! 

The  evening  was  damp  and  chilly,  and  he  tied  a  handker- 
chief around  his  face  and  drew  up  his  coat-collar.  The  muffling 
would  at  least  help  to  shield  him  from  recognition.  The  lamps 
were  lighted ;  careless  laughter  rang  in  his  ears ;  the  brilliant 
restaurants  were  full  of  happy  guests  ;  men  and  women  were 
pressing  into  the  open  doors  of  the  theaters;  carriages  and 
omnibuses  rolled  up  with  happy-looking  freights,  and  life  went 
on  around  him  as  careless  of  him  as  if  he  and  his  troubles  had 
no  existence.  A  great  reputation  had  fallen,  but  nobody 
paused  to  contemplate  the  ruins.  His  life  had  practically 
ended  in  disgrace,  and  the  thoughtless  multitude  did  not  care. 
The  space  that  he  had  filled  in  society  was  closing  up  already, 
and  soon  he  would  be  counted  out  of  it  altogether. 

Wrapped  in  his  bitter  and  despairing  thoughts,  and  not  know- 
ing or  caring  where  he  was,  he  heard  a  church-bell.  It  sounded 
to  him  like  a  bell  in  heaven.  He  knew  the  tone,  and  knew 
that  his  Christian  brothers  and  sisters  were  answering  to  its 
call.  Ah !  why  should  he  who  had  responded  to  that  bell  so 
many  times  be  left  so  shorn  of  reputation  and  happiness  ?  Had 
he  not  paid  his  money?  Had  he  not  been  in  his  place,  in 
season  and  out  of  season  ?  Had  not  his  voice  been  heard  in 
prayer  and  exhortation  ?  Had  not  his  influence  been  thrown 
constantly  upon  the  side  of  religion  ?  Why  had  God  forsaken 
him? 

The  bell  had  a  strange  fascination  for  him.  He  arrived  at 
the  church,  and,  although  it  was  late,  he  determined  to  go  in. 
Perhaps  some  word  of  comfort  might  come  to  him  !  Perhaps 
man's  extremity  would  be  God's  opportunity  !  Perhaps  some 
beam  of  light  would  illumine  the  way  that  seemed  so  dark 
before  him  !  Perhaps  some  miracle  would  be  wrought  on  his 
behalf,  if,  under  such  depressing  circumstances,  he  should  con- 
tinue true  to  his  religious  obligations  ! 

He  entered,  and  took  his  seat  in  the  rear  of  the  assembly, 
room,  just  as  the  minister  gave  out  his  text :  "  Inasmuch  as  y« 


374  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  these,  my  brethren,  ye  have 
done  it  unto  me."  Every  word  of  the  searching  discourse  was 
a  thorn  pressed  into  his  aching  brow,  and  the  prayer  at  its  close, 
evidently  inspired  by  the  history  of  the  day,  crushed  him  with 
a  penitence  for  wrongs  which  it  was  too  late  to  remedy. 

When  the  benediction  was  pronounced,  he  slipped  out  of  the 
door,  and  encountered  the  sexton.  He  had  forgotten  that  this 
modest  functionary  was  one  of  his  many  victims. 

The  sexton  stepped  to  his  side  quietly,  and  said : 

"  It's  all  right,  I  hope,  Mr.  Benson  ?  When  shall  I  call  upon 
you  ?  " 

"  Never.     Take  this  :  it  is  all  I  have." 

He  handed  him  a  little  roll  of  bank  notes,  and  vanished. 
Then  he  thought  what  a  good  thing  he  had  done—  how  it  would 
be  talked  about  in  the  church,  and  how  much  it  would  do  to 
soften  the  judgments  of  those  who  had  known  him  there  !  Per- 
haps, too,  this  little  act  would  somehow  turn  the  tide  of  ad- 
versity that  was  then  piling  its  cruel  waves  upon  him  ! 

He  stepped  rapidly  away  to  avoid  the  crowd.  Passing  into 
a  side  street,  he  saw  a  huge  Newfoundland  dog,  seated  upon  a 
pile  of  ashes,  howling  for  its  lost  master.  He  was  struck  at 
once  with  a  sense  of  companionship,  called  the  animal  to  him 
with  kind  words,  and  bade  him  follow.  The  dog  licked  his 
hand,  and  he  stopped  and  patted  his  shaggy  head.  Coming  to 
an  open  butcher's  shop,  he  spent  a  few  cents  for  meat,  and  fed 
him,  and  then  they  went  on,  man  and  dog  together.  Was  he, 
a  man  who  could  be  touched  by  the  pitiful  cry  of  a  dog  that 
had  lost  its  master,  an  inhuman  man  ?  He  felt  that  he  was 
not,  and  that  he  had  only  made  mistakes,  and  been  forced  by 
circumstances  into  measures  that  had  compromised  his  reputa- 
tion and  his  prosperities.  He  could  see  the  mistakes,  and  if 
he  had  his  life  to  live  again,  he  should  not  make  them ;  but  he 
was  helpless  against  the  circumstances.  The  more  he  thought, 
the  more  he  felt  himself  wronged.  The  more  he  thought,  the 
more  he  grew  angry  with  the  world. 

The  huge  dog  hung  at  his  heels  like   a   shadow — past  the 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  375 

street  lamps,  through  the  dark  passages — everywhere — silent, 
content,  trustful.  He  seemed  to  know  that  his  benefactor  was 
in  trouble,  and  to  wish  to  express  his  sympathy  by  his  clumsy 
caresses.  He  assumed  a  sort  of  guardianship  of  his  new 
master,  and  growled  menacingly  whenever  they  met  suspicious- 
looking  passengers. 

It  was  midnight  when  Mr.  Benson  turned  into  his  own  street. 
He  knew  that,  by  that  time,  his  discouraged  creditors  would 
have  gone  to  their  homes. 

As  he  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  that  led  up  to  his  door, 
the  dog  stopped  and  began  to  growl.  Then  a  dark  figure 
stepped  out  of  the  area,  and  approached  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  the  latter  inquired. 

"Take  care  of  your  dog,  or  I'll  shoot  him,"  said  the  man. 

Mr.  Benson  seized  the  dog  by  the  collar,  and  held  him  quiet. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  inquired  again. 

"  A  man  as  has  business  with  you,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  This  is  no  hour  for  business." 

"  It's  the  right  time  for  my  business,  and  it's  the  right  time 
for  the  sort  of  business  that  you've  done  with  me." 

"Captain  Hank?" 

"  Yes,  that's  what  the  boys  call  me." 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  He  steals  a  hard-workin'  and  a  slow-savin'  man's  bonds 
from  'im,  an'  then  axes  'im  what  he  wants  with  'im,"  said  Cap- 
tain Hank.  "  He  steals  'em,  an'  he  keeps  'em.  He  needn't 
say  that  he  hasn't  kep'  'em,  for  he  knows  he  has  ! " 

"  I  have  not  kept  them.  They  are  not  in  this  house.  It  is 
just  as  impossible  for  me  to  give  them  to  you  as  it  would  be  to 
give  you  the  money  for  them." 

"  Then  you  must  git  money  for  me,  for  I'm  broke,"  growled 
Captain  Hank. 

"  Captain  Hank,  I  have  no  money  to-night,  and  you  must 
call  again." 

"  No,  you  don't  come  no  telegraph  on  me  again.  I'm  here 
for  money.'-' 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Pick  it  up  in  the  street,  then,  for  I  have  none." 

The  dog  was  growing  more  excited,  and  difficult  to  hold. 

"  If  you  want  money,  come  here  to-morrow  night  at  thii 
hour,  and  go  away  now,  or  I  will  not  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences. I  will  certainly  let  this  dog  loose  if  you  do  hot  leave 
me  this  moment,  and  he'll  make  short  work  with  you." 

The  villain  moved  off,  cursing  both  Mr.  Benson  and  the  dog, 
and  promising  to  return  at  the  appointed  time. 

Mr.  Benson  mounted  the  steps,  and  letting  himself  in  with  a 
latch-key,  disappeared  from  the  street. 

He  tied  the  dog  in  his  library,  and  went  to  bed.  It  was 
nearly  dawn  before  he  slept,  and  he  was  awakened  at  last  by  a 
rap  at  his  door. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Breakfast  is  waiting,  sir,  and  the  street  is  full  of  people, 
asking  to  see  you,"  the  servant  responded. 

Mr.  Benson  rose,  and,  parting  the  curtain  sufficiently  to  see 
without  being  seen,  scanned  the  darkening  mass  of  eager,  ques- 
tioning men  and  women.  There  were  more  than  his  deposi- 
tors there.  There  were  those  there  who  had  never  deposited 
a  dollar  with  anybody.  There  were  ruffians  and  pickpockets 
who  had  come  not  only  to  witness  his  disgrace,  but  to  ply  their 
trade, — a  savage,  rejoicing  crowd,  that  gloated  over  a  Christian's 
overthrow, — so  pleased  and  excited  by  it  that  the  very  house 
he  lived  in  was  an  object  to  be  looked  at  by  the  hour,  as  if 
some  awful  scandal  in  high  life  had  been  born  there,  or  a  mur- 
der had  been  committed. 

He  dressed  himself  with  his  accustomed  care,  and  walked 
down-stairs  to  his  breakfast,  in  a  room  at  the  rear  of  his  house. 

"Thomas,"  he  said  quietly  to  his  waiting  man,  "I  am  not 
well  this  morning.  After  breakfast,  I  want  you  to  go  to  the 
bank,  and  tell  them  that  I  shall  keep  my  room  to-day.  No  one 
is  to  be  admitted  to  the  house,  at  either  door." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  Thomas.  "  I  will  go  to  the  bank,  but 
I'm  not  coming  back.  Cook  gives  her  notice,  too,  and  is  pack 
ing  to  leave." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  377 

"  Very  well,  Thomas.  Only  see  that  no  one  gets  in.  I'm 
sorry  that  I  have  no  money  for  you.  If  you  and  the  cook  can 
find  anything  in  the  house  that  will  pay  you  what  is  owing  to 
you,  take  it  away.  I  will  trust  you.  The  quicker  you  do  it  the 
better,  for  this  crowd  may  become  reckless  after  waiting." 

Then  Mr.  Benson  ate  his  breakfast  without  an  appetite,  from 
his  old,  automatic  sense  of  duty,  and  then  he  sat  back  and  read 
his  newspaper.  He  read  everything  that  he  could  find  which 
did  not  relate  to  himself  and  his  affairs.  He  read  politics,  the 
theater  notices,  the  police  record,  and  gradually  worked  up  to 
the  full  detailed  account  of  the  run  upon  his  bank,  and  an  edi- 
torial comment  upon  himself.  There  was  a  measure  of  respect- 
fulness in  this  comment,  but  it  closed  with  a  hint  that  there 
were  to  be  astounding  disclosures,  which  menaced  a  character 
that  had  been  held  in  high  honor  in  the  community  for  many 
years.  He  found  what  this  meant  when,  in  looking  over 
the  advertisements,  he  saw  one  signed  "  Nicholas  Minturn," 
giving  a  succinct  account  of  the  Ottercliff  robbery,  and  the 
numbers  of  the  bonds  stolen.  The  advertiser  warned  all  per- 
sons against  purchasing  the  bonds,  and  offered  a  suitable 
reward  for  their  discovery  and  delivery.  Mr.  Benson  was  calm 
no  longer.  Up  to  this  point  he  had,  so  far  as  the  public  knew, 
come  only  to  a  most  disastrous  financial  failure.  It  was  true 
that  he  owed  money  to  the  bank,  but  his  pledge  was  there.  He 
had  kept  secret  the  loans  of  the  other  officers ;  but  men  had 
lived  through  such  things, — stained  somewhat,  perhaps,  but  still 
with  a  flavor  of  their  old  respectability,  and  a  few  friendly  par- 
tisans left. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  fully  realized  that  he  was  a 
criminal.  The  act  which  had  made  him  such  had  not  greatly 
horrified  him.  The  results  of  the  act,  which  were  to  make  him 
a  hunted  man — which  were  either  to  place  him  in  the  hands  of 
the  law  or  to  drive  him  into  disgraceful  exile — which  were  to 
load  his  name  with  ineffaceable  opprobrium — which  would  make 
it  forever  impossible  for  him  to  hold  up  his  head  among  honest 
and  respectable  men — these  swept  the  world  from  under  him. 


378  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Realizing  that  he  was  already  a  prisoner  in  his  own  house, 
afraid  to  venture  out  to  make  one  last  attempt  to  get  hold  of 
and  destroy  the  stolen  bonds,  measurably  sure,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, that  his  bank  was  already  closed  against  him,  and 
in  the  hands  of  a  receiver — remorseful,  rebellious,  hopeless, 
helpless,  he  stormed  about  his  apartment  like  a  madman,  or 
sat  and  groaned  in  his  chair,  and  listened  to  the  murmurs  of 
the  crowd  from  which  he  was  hidden  only  by  a  curtain. 

At  last  he  thought  of  the  dog,  and  went  to  release  him.  The 
animal  was  overjoyed,  and  after  he  had  been  fed,  clung  to  him 
affectionately  as  he  wandered  from  room  to  room.  This  was 
all  the  friend  he  had  left.  Even  a  dog,  to  whom  he  had  been 
kind,  clung  to  him  in  his  hour  of  supreme  adversity,  but  there 
was  no  human  being  in  the  wide  world  who,  remembering  some 
act  of  sympathetic  kindness  from  him,  would  extend  to  him  a 
thought  of  affection,  or  would  drop  a  tear  upon  his  memory. 
He  had  done  many  good  things  from  a  sense  of  duty, — to  God 
and  his  own  reputation, — but  never  one  humane  thing  from  an 
impulse  of  kindness  and  love.  By  his  quickened  apprehen- 
sions he  saw  the  fatal  flaw  in  his  life  and  character  for  the  first 
time.  It  was  all  a  mistake.  Oh,  if  he  could  but  try  it  all 
over! 

The  dog  knew  that  there  was  something  wrong  outside,  and 
the  outsiders  were  only  too  sure  that  there  was  something 
wrong  within.  Already  the  ignorant  mass  at  the  door  and  on 
the  street,  watching  the  silent,  curtained  house,  were  growing 
superstitious.  They  were  filled  with  a  creeping  terror,  as  at 
one  window  and  another  a  strange,  black  dog — strange  to  them 
and  to  the  house  with  which  they  were  so  familiar — parted  the 
curtains  with  his  nose,  and  looked  out  upon  them.  This  was 
the  only  living  face  that  they  could  see.  The  door-bell  was 
rung  again  and  again,  but  there  was  no  response.  Policemen 
came  and  tried  to  persuade  the  crowd  to  go  away,  but  as  they 
were  peaceable,  no  forcible  attempts  were  made  at  their  dis- 
persion. Curious,  fascinated,  hoping  that  the  door  would  be 
opened,  seeing  nothing  alive  but  the  black  dog's  face — now 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  379 

heie,  now  there — they  stood  and  gazed — gazed  through  the 
long  morning,  through  the  long  afternoon — coming  and  going 
— until  night  fell  upon  them,  and  cold  and  hunger  drove  them 
away,  almost  forgetting  their  losses  in  the  fearful  contempla 
tion  of  the  mystery  they  were  leaving  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MR.    BENSON    ESCAPES    FROM   HIS   TROUBLES    BY  A   CHARACTER 
ISTIC  ARTIFICE,    AND   CAPT.    HANK   COMES   TO   GRIEF. 

THE  depositors  in  the  Poor  Man's  Savings  Bank  were  favored 
with  only  one  day  for  the  run  which  they  had  determined  to 
make  upon  its  ready  funds.  On  the  second  morning  a  receiver 
took  possession  of  it,  the  door  was  closed  upon  the  gathering 
crowd,  and  a  placard,  stating  the  facts,  was  posted  upon  it. 
Many  of  those  who  assembled  in  front  of  Mr.  Benson's  house, 
and  prevented  his  egress,  were  those  who  had  been  turned 
away  from  the  bank, — men  of  desperate  fortunes  and  desperate 
purposes,  who  were  only  restrained  from  violence  by  the  pres- 
ence of  a  body  of  police. 

Mr.  Benson's  note,  stating  that  he  was  too  ill  that  morning 
to  make  his  appearance  at  the  bank,  was  received  ;  and  it  was 
concluded  to  let  him  alone  that  day  for  rest  and  recovery,  as 
he  would  need"  all  his  strength  for  the  investigation  determined 
upon. 

To  Mr.  Benson,  with  his  active  habits,  his  accustomed  free- 
dom, and  his  long  command  of  circumstances,  the  day  seemed 
interminable.  To  be  caged  in  his  own  house,  with  a  lost  dog 
for  his  only  companion ;  to  have  the  attention  of  the  whole  city 
called  to  his  fall  by  the  miserable  mob  before  his  dwelling ;  to 
be  besieged  and  menaced  by  the  men  and  women  who  had  so 
reverenced  and  bowed  down  to  him,  filled  him  with  anger  and 
shame.  He  could  see  no  way  out  of  it.  Why  should  he  care 
to  live  ?  What  would  there  be  left  to  him  when  his  reputation 
and  money  were  both  gone  ?  Even  should  he  escape  the  punish- 
ment of  a  prison,  he  could  be  nothing  but  an  outcast.  The 
heap  of  ashes  in  the  street,  from  which  he  had  called  his  brute 
companion,  would  be  his  home,  and  no  cry  nor  whine  that  he 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  381 

might  raise  would  move  to  beckoning  the  hands  of  sympathy 
and  mercy.  The  mark  of  Cain  was  upon  him.  Every  one  whc 
found  him  would  slay  him,  and  he  felt  that  his  punishment  was 
greater  than  he  could  bear. 

Practically,  he  was  already  a  pauper.  He  had  been  prac- 
ticing the  arts  of  the  dead-beat  for  weeks.  He  had  borrowed 
from  day  to  day,  on  such  pretenses  as  might  be  necessary  to 
secure  success,  and  the  end  had  come.  He  could  never  fulfill 
his  pledges ;  he  could  never  have  a  chance  to  rise  again.  He 
could  see  nothing  before  him  but  flight  and  disgraceful  exile,  or 
a  pinched  and  disreputable  life  among  the  scenes  through 
which  he  had  moved  for  so  many  years  in  honor  and  assured 
power  and  prosperity.  As  the  night  came  down,  and  the 
crowd  in  front  of  his  dwelling  dispersed,  he  found  that  his  un- 
tended  rooms  were  growing  cold.  So  he  built  a  fire  for  himself 
in  his  library,  and  spent  the  evening  in  burning  papers.  Every 
scrap  that  could  possibly  make  against  him  in  the  examination 
of  his  affairs  was  consumed.  He  tore  the  leaves  which  re- 
corded his  knowledge  of  the  stolen  bonds  out  of  his  note-book 
and  burned  them. 

An  awful  purpose  was  taking  possession  of  his  mind.  He 
had  not  received  it  fully,  but  it  hung  around  him  like  an  invisi- 
ble spirit,— dreadful,  but  not  unwelcome, — bearing  the  face  of 
an  enemy  but  the  hand  of  a  friend  ;  pointing  a  path  out  of  cei- 
tainties  into  uncertainties — out  of  a  known  hell  into  one  un- 
known— out  of  cruel  entities  into  possible  nothingness.  He 
had  arrived  at  a  point  where  what  he  regarded  as  his  faith  had 
slipped  away  from  him,  and  skulked  in  the  distance,  and 
laughed  at  him  for  a  fool.  If  there  had  been  anything  in  prayer 
— if  there  had  been  anything  in  religion — if  there  was  a  God 
above  him  or  a  hell  beneath — why  had  he,  whose  life  had  been 
conspicuously  religious,  been  left  unhelped  and  unblest  ?  It 
was  all  a  foolish,  cruel  dream. 

The  heavens  were  not  only  brass  above  him,  but  they  had 
become  burnished  brass,  in  which  he  could  see  reflected  every 
unworthy  motive  by  which  he  had  been  led  to  seek  the  propi- 


38a  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

tiation  of  the  Being  who,  as  he  had  believed,  made  them  Hia 
abode — his  desire  for  respectability — his  wish,  for  duties  ren- 
dered, to  secure  wealth — the  yoke  of  obligation  he  had  borne 
in  the  place  of  a  love  that  should  have  borne  him — the  wide 
and  fatal  gulf  that  lay  between  his  religion  and  his  morals. 
It  was  all  worthless  dross — the  residuum  of  a  life  which  he  had 
Supposed  was  pure  gold. 

The  first  of  the  evening  hours  were  busy  ones.  The  dog  sat 
and  watched  him,  licking  his  cold  hands  when  they  were  at 
rest.  Even  the  dog  seemed  to  feel  that  there  was  another  dark 
shadow  present  which  he  could  not  see.  He  sniffed  the  air. 
He  went  back  and  forth  between  the  window  and  the  door. 
Then  he  lay  down  and  lapsed  into  troubled  dreams,  from  which 
he  woke  to  reassure  himself  that  nothing  unwelcome  had  hap- 
pened to  his  new  master.  The  roar  from  the  street  was  muffled 
by  the  intervening  rooms,  and  only  made  the  silence  of  the 
house  deeper  and  more  dreadful.  The  clock  ticked  so  loudly 
that  Mr.  Benson  rose  and  stopped  it — and  then  the  shadowy 
presence  crept  closer.  It  promised  escape.  It  promised  for- 
getfulness.  It  promised  a  sudden  end  of  all  earthly  cares  and 
sorrows.  It  promised  an  overwhelming  defeat  of  all  earthly 
enemies.  It  promised  a  revenge  upon  all  persecutors.  Under 
its  stimulating  suggestions  he  felt  a  tide  of  triumph  rising  in  his 
heart.  He  was  still  master  of  the  situation.  There  was  only 
one  consideration  which  dampened  the  sense  of  triumph. 
Would  not  the  act  to  which  he  felt  himself  moved  be  a  confes- 
sion ?  Would  it  not  stain  him  with  a  disgrace  more  dreadful 
than  the  alternative  life  of  ignominious  poverty  ? 

And  then  there  came  the  suggestion  of  a  scheme  which  would 
relieve  him  even  from  this.  He  knew  that  Captain  Hank 
would  come,  and  he  rejoiced  in  the  thought  that  the  robber  was 
starved  and  desperate.  There  was  no  act  at  which  the  mis- 
creant would  hesitate,  in  his  blind  greed  and  rage. 

It  was  already  getting  late.  He  took  out  his  watch  and  saw 
that  it  lacked  but  half  an  hour  of  midnight.  Rising  from  his 
chair,  he  patted  the  dog's  head,  and  said  : 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  3! j 

*(  Old  fellow,  will  you  take  care  of  this  room  ?  " 

The  dog  understood  the  question,  and  wagged  his  tail  in  an 
affirmative  response. 

He  passed  out  of  his  library,  closing  the  door  behind  him 
without  locking  it.  He  slowly  mounted  to  his  room,  lighted  a 
single  burner,  poured  out  a  potion  from  a  phial,  then  crushed 
the  glass  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  then,  wrapping  these  in  a 
paper,  raised  a  window  and  tossed  them  into  the  street.  Then 
he  carefully  removed  his  clothing,  turned  down  the  light  some- 
what, and  placing  the  potion  within  his  reach,  went  to  bed.  He 
was  dressed  as  usual,  save  in  a  single  particular.  He  had  put 
a  handkerchief  around  his  neck,  and  tied  it  loosely  in  a  hard 
knot. 

A  church-bell  not  far  off  tolled  the  hour  of  twelve,  and  almost 
simultaneously  he  heard  the  door-bell  ring.  Captain  Hank  was 
true  to  his  appointment.  He  rang  again  and  again,  and  then 
Mr.  Benson  heard  him,  wearied  and  maddened,  descending  the 
steps. 

The  street  was  still,  for  the  hour  had  come  when  the  stir  and 
strife  of  the  old  day  had  worn  themselves  out,  and  the  life  of  the 
new  day  was  not  begun — that  period  which,  sweet  as  it  is  in  the 
country,  is  full  of  awe  to  the  waking  citizen — that  period  which 
seems  as  if  a  million  hearts  had  ceased  to  beat,  and  the  city 
were  dead.  The  sleepless  invalid,  the  superstitious  child,  the 
watchful  mother,  turned  upon  their  couches,  and  longed  for  the 
sound  of  wheels,  or  the  step  of  a  passing  watchman,  to  assure 
them  that,  amid  the  dangers  of  the  elements  and  the  machina- 
tions of  crime,  more  fearful  than  storm  or  fire,  some  one  was 
awake  and  abroad. 

But  Mr.  Benson  was  more  than  content  with  the  silence.  He 
hoped — he  almost  lapsed  into  his  habit  of  praying — that  it 
might  not  be  broken.  He  had  abounding  faith  in  the  desperate 
ruffianism  of  his  midnight  visitor,  and  believed  that  he  had  not 
gone  away.  He  lay  still,  listening,  with  every  sense  alert,  to 
catch  the  slightest  noise  that  might  reach  his  room.  He  lay  thus 
an  hour,  nothing  but  his  throbbing  heart  disturbing  him.  At 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

length,  when  his  patience  was  nearly  exhausted,  he  heard  a  low, 
grating  noise  in  the  rear  of  his  dwelling.  He  rose  upon  his 
elbow  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not  deceived.  A  creaking 
sound,  as  of  some  fastening  severely  tried  or  slowly  giving  way, 
assured  him,  and  then  he  swallowed  his  draft  to  the  last  drop, 
and  lay  down  again. 

Ah  !  who  can  follow  him  now,  even  in  imagination  !  Those 
first  sweet,  wild  dreams,  whither  did  they  lead  him  ?  Far  out 
to  sea,  bounding  over  waves  of  silver,  with  the  breath  of  spicy 
islands  regaling  his  quickened  senses?  Were  there  beautiful  forms 
upon  the  deck  around  him  ?  Were  there  marvelous  fires  in  the 
sky  above  him  ?  Did  he  fly,  as  if  the  bark  that  bore  him  were 
a  thing  of  the  air  ?  Were  the  elements  his  slaves  ?  Did  the 
creatures  of  the  deep,  with  iris  tinted  sides,  rise  up  to  gambol  in 
his  sight,  and  strew  the  sea  with  pearly  spray  ? 

Did  he  hear  the  bells  of  his  church  ring  far  away — far  away — 
as  if  their  tones  fell  down  to  him  like  stars,  blazing  or  fading,  or 
flew  down  to  him  like  angels  from  some  inaccessible  height, 
and  folded  their  wings  as  they  touched  and  melted  into  himself? 
Did  he  hear  the  organ  that  once  led  him  in  his  worship,  begin- 
ning its  cadences  in  some  almost  inappreciable  dream  of  sound, 
like  a  rivulet  picking  its  sweet,  complaining  way  through  a  dis- 
tant glen,  and  then  rising  by  slow  accretions  of  power  until  the 
waves  of  awful  music  broke  out  upon  the  universe,  hurrying  the 
clouds  out  of  heaven,  and  enveloping  the  world  with  the  screams 
and  thunders  and  multitudinous  voices  of  a  thousand  storms  ? 
Did  he  walk  through  the  streets  of  a  golden  city,  a  crown  upon 
his  head,  and  a  purple  robe  upon  his  shoulders,  trailing  over 
pavements  of  ruby  and  amethyst,  while  all  who  met  him  bowed 
or  knelt  in  obeisance,  and  dusky  slaves  in  gorgeous  raiment 
announced  his  coming,  and  made  wide  the  path  for  his  feet  ? 

And  then,  did  there  slowly  come  a  change  ?  *  Was  he  aware 
that  a  dog  was  at  his  side — a  strange  creature  that  would  not 
away,  but  pressed  a  cold  nose  against  his  shrinking  hand  wher- 
ever he  went — a  living  shadow  that  followed  him,  and  asserted 
a  place  by  his  side,  through  whatever  glory  shone  upon  him,  or 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  385 

whatever  ministry  of  honor  was  tendered  to  him  ?  Did  he  try 
to  fly  from  the  creature,  and,  as  he  flew,  did  he  find  himself  at 
sea  again,  the  dog,  with  gleaming  eyes  and  glistening  teeth, 
swimming  in  the  wake  of  the  scudding  vessel,  his  body  stretch- 
ing miles  arear  in  serpentine  waves  and  convolutions  ?  Did 
ships  wrapped  in  flame  rush  wildly  across  his  path,  paving  the 
ocean  with  fire  and  painting  the  clouds  with  blood,  and  bursting 
like  rockets  into  stars  of  green  and  gold,  and  showers  of  crim- 
son rain  ?  Did  his  own  ship  split  in  twain,  with  a  crack  of 
thunder,  and  did  he  slip  helplessly  into  the  yawning  chasm,  his 
struggling  heart  grasped  in  the  horny  hands  of  fears  that  rushed 
in  upon  him,  impersonated  in  forms  of  hideous  terror — down — 
down — down — into  the  violet  water,  great  monsters,  with  star- 
ing, vacant  eyes,  chafing  him  with  their  slimy  sides — rotting 
wrecks  below  him,  with  sleeping  skeletons  upon  their  decks — • 
gems  on  the  ocean's  floor,  that  slipped  away  from  him  as  he  tried 
to  grasp  them — mocking  laughter  ringing,  that  seemed  to  rever- 
berate throughout  interminable  galleries,  bursting  upon  one  ear, 
and  then  echoing  wide  around  the  world,  and  coming  back, 
shivered  into  spiteful  ripples,  to  the  other  ? 

Then  by  some  swift  miracle  was  he  in  his  home  again — with 
a  great  multitude  of  weeping,  blood-shot  eyes  gazing  up  at  him 
from  the  street,  with  a  thousand  tongues  loading  him  with  curses, 
and  a  thousand  hands  lifted  in  menace  ?  And  then  did  he  hear 
a  far-off  roar,  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  as  if  some  great  engine 
of  wrath  and  destruction  were  approaching  upon  wheels  that 
ground  the  pavement  beneath  them  to  powder,  while  the  faces 
of  the  crowd  grew  white  with  apprehension  ?  Did  it  come  on, 
and  on,  while  men  yelled  and  women  fainted — on  and  on,  fiery- 
throated,  clothed  with  triple  brass,  drawn  by  demons,  and  rush- 
ing by  at  last  with  ponderous,  thunderous,  irresistible  momen- 
tum, leaving  behind  its  murderous  passage  an  indistinguishable 
mass  of  mangled  flesh  and  comminuted  bones,  all  crimsoned 
with  the  vital  tide  from  bursting  hearts  ? 

And  then,  ah,  then !  when  the  wheels  had  passed  away,  and 
a  strange  lull  came  down  and  enveloped  all  things,  did  he  find 
17 


386  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

himself  standing  in  a  vast,  white  silence,  that  seemed  a  part  of 
his  dream,  yet  presented  materials  and  visions,  which  had  never 
entered  into  a  dream  ? 

The  stuff  of  which  dreams  are  made  was  all  behind  him  !  As 
a  storm  which  sweeps  from  the  west,  on  a  late  afternoon,  with 
its  burden  of  lightning,  and  thunder,  and  rain,  and  tempestuous 
wind,  lifts  its  veil  from  the  evening  sun,  while  still  its  departing 
skirts  trail  down  the  east,  so  his  dream  had  come  and  gone. 
There  were  flashes  back  upon  the  world-ward  memory,  but  he 
had  entered  a  new  world,  with  an  everlasting  sun. 

Was  it  a  desert  of  illimitable  sand,  with  mocking  oases  and 
seductive  and  deceitful  mirages  ?  Was  it  a  land  of  fair  pastures 
— of  flower-bordered  paths  that  led  to  a  golden  city,  with  gleam- 
ing spires,  and  welcoming  banners,  and  walls  of  precious 
stones  ?  No  one  knows,  and  those  who  have  followed  him 
through  the  possible  dream  which  introduced  him  to  his  new 
life,  will  gladly  commit  him  to  the  just  and  pitying  One  whom 
he  served  so  poorly  and  mistakenly  in  his  earthly  career. 

Captain  Hank,  unknowing  of  the  tragedy  that  had  transpired 
during  his  tedious  passage  into  the  house,  had  at  last  effected 
an  entrance.  The  family  were  gone  with  their  jewels.  Thomas 
and  the  cook,  licensed  by  their  owner,  whose  determination  to 
end  his  life  had  already  been  dimly  taken,  had  carried  off  the 
silver ;  and  he  found  the  available  rewards  of  his  guilty  enter- 
prise provokingly  scanty.  He  carried  his  dark  lantern  around 
from  room  to  room,  peering  into  drawers  and  closets,  stopping 
at  intervals  to  listen,  and  inwardly  cursing  his  ill  luck.  He 
regaled  himself  in  the  larder  with  such  viands  and  wines  as  he 
found,  and  mounted  leisurely  from  story  to  story,  making  sure 
at  every  step  of  his  backward  passage,  and  looking  for  the 
room  in  which  his  victim  slept.  He  did  not  enter  the  library, 
where  he  knew  the  safe  to  be,  because  he  would  not  find  the 
key  there.  The  old  grudge  which  he  owed  Mr.  Benson  for 
circumventing  him  in  getting  possession  of  the  bonds,  and  the 
new  grudge  which  had  been  inspired  by  Mr.  Benson's  failure  to 
keep  his  promise  with  him  on  that  evening,  were  burning  bit- 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  387 

terly  in  his  heart.  His  disappointment  at  not  finding  anything 
in  his  search  that  was  valuable,  and,  at  the  same  time,  portable, 
fed  the  flames  of  his  anger  and  resentment. 

At  last  he  opened  the  door  he  sought,  and  carefully  peered 
within.  There  lay  the  man  he  hated,  in  a  sound  and  peaceful 
sleep  !  Unmindful  of  his  engagement,  enjoying  the  calm  re- 
pose of  one  to  whom  crime  was  a  stranger,  forgetful  of  the 
wrongs  he  had  inflicted  upon  a  thousand  poor  men  and  women, 
recruiting  himself  for  another  day's  machinations  and  mischief, 
— there  he  lay,  in  a  slumber  so  profound  that  neither  noise  nor 
light  turned  full  upon  his  face,  could  disturb  him  ! 

At  first,  Captain  Hank  was  struck  with  a  kind  of  awe.  His 
heart  beat  thickly  in  his  ears  as  he  stepped  within  the  room. 
He  had  seen  the  handkerchief  around  Mr.  Benson's  neck,  and 
had  determined  what  he  would  do  with  it  if  the  wearer  should 
stir.  He  found  his  clothes,  and  extracted  a  bunch  of  keys  from 
the  pockets,  and  then  he  looked  again,  and  saw  the  placid  face 
in  a  smile  that  seemed  half  conscious.  He  searched  the  room 
for  treasure,  and  discovered  a  watch,  which  he  pocketed.  Then 
he  heard,  or  thought  he  heard,  a  noise.  Was  Mr.  Benson 
waking  ? 

He  turned  upon  him  like  a  tiger,  grasped  the  handkerchief  at 
his  throat,  and  gave  it  a  cruel  twist,  that  carried  his  knuckles 
deep  into  the  cold  flesh.  Then  he  released  his  hold,  and  sprang 
back  as  if  a  viper  had  stung  him. 

"  Great  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  the  man  is  dead  1 " 

If  invisible  fiends  haunt  such  a  man  and  such  a  scene  as 
this,  what  inextinguishable  laughter  must  have  possessed  them 
when  they  saw  how  cleverly  Captain  Hank  had  been  en- 
trapped by  his  wily  antagonist !  The  handkerchief  was  placed 
there  for  him  by  the  man  who,  proposing  to  pass  out  of  life, 
and  lingeringly  fond  of  his  reputation,  contrived  everything  for 
the  purpose  of  being  reputed  a  murdered  man  !  In  the  male- 
diction of  the  crime  of  another,  words  of  pity  and  commisera- 
tion would  be  spoken  concerning  himself !  To  be  murdered 
would  be  to  soften  the  world's  judgments.  To  be  murdered 


388  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

would  be  a  calamity  so  much  greater  than  the  loss  of  money, 
that  the  disaster  which  he  had  brought  upon  so  many  would  be 
forgotten  in  his  own. 

There  was  no  cause  for  haste  now.  Captain  Hank  had 
learned  that  he  was  then  the  only  living  man  in  the  house.  He 
sat  down  in  a  chair,  pale  in  the  face,  feeling  his  hands  and  feet 
growing  cold,  and  perspiring  at  every  pore.  He  had  not  in  his 
heart  intended  murder,  but  there  lay  the  evidence  of  his  crime. 
He  recognized  all  the  possibilities  and  probabilities  of  the  situa- 
tion, but  with  the  keys  in  his  hand  he  would  not  relinquish  his 
quest  for  treasure  until  he  had  visited  the  safe. 

Not  a  growl,  not  a  whine,  had  the  dog  uttered  during  all  the 
noise,  but  he  stood  ready  and  waiting,  with  fierce  eyes  and 
trembling  limbs,  to  defend  what  he  had  agreed  to  defend.  His 
keen  scent  had  detected  the  invading  personality.  He  knew 
already  the  antagonist  he  was  about  to  encounter,  and  every 
savage,  brutal  instinct  within  him  was  aroused.  The  moment 
Captain  Hank  opened  the  door,  and  threw  before  him  the  bar 
of  straight,  red  light  from  his  dark  lantern,  he  saw  two  blazing 
eyes  that  sprang  toward  him.  He  darted  back,  but  there  was 
a  grip  upon  his  throat.  He  gave  an  involuntary  yell  of  pain, 
and,  dropping  his  lantern  in  the  darkness,  fought  wildly  with 
his  hands.  He  reached  the  staircase  without  knowing  it,  and 
then,  just  as  he  had  drawn  a  pistol  from  his  pocket,  fell  head- 
long, and  man  and  dog  rolled  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  together, 
the  aimless  firearm  exploding  during  the  passage.  A  groan,  a 
cry,  mingling  with  the  growl  of  the  unhurt  beast  that  held  him 
fast,  completed  the  tragedy  of  the  moment. 

A  watchman  who,  unknown  to  Mr.  Benson,  had  been  de- 
tailed to  stand  outside  during  the  night,  and  make  sure  that  he 
did  not  fly,  heard  the  tumult  within,  and  knew  that  some  strange 
and  fearful  violence  was  in  progress.  His  club  rang  upon  the 
sidewalk  in  a  long  series  of  sharply  resounding  strokes,  and,  as 
a  police  station  was  but  a  few  rods  distant,  it  was  not  five 
minutes  before  the  entire  block  was  surrounded  by  a  cordon 
of  strong  and  eager  men. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  389 

The  front  of  the  house  was  bolted  and  barred,  and  nothing 
but  extreme  violence  could  effect  an.  entrance  there.  No  re- 
sponse came  to  the  loudest  knocking  and  the  most  persistent 
r'nging.  Then,  three  or  four  of  the  policemen  found  an  open- 
ing into  the  block,  and  sought  the  rear  of  the  dwelling.  A 
window  was  up,  and  they  saw  that  it  had  been  forced. 

One  after  another,  they  lifted  themselves  in,  and  lighting  the 
gas  in  the  basement,  proceeded  with  their  lanterns  upstairs. 
There,  stretched  upon  the  floor  of  the  hall,  the  great  dog  over 
him,  lay  a  bleeding  form  which  they  recognized  at  once.  They 
understood  the  nature  of  his  errand,  and  did  honor  to  his  captor, 
who  looked  from  his  prize  up  into  their  faces,  and  wagged  his 
tail.  They  patted  his  head,  and  told  him  that  he  had  done  well. 

The  dog  seemed  to  know  that  these  men  had  authority,  and 
yielded  his  place  to  them.  Creeping  back,  he  suddenly  darted 
upstairs.  He  did  not  stop  at  the  library,  but  went  on,  sniffing 
as  he  went,  and  while  the  policemen  were  stooping  over  the 
prostrate  man,  trying  to  determine  whether  life  were  still  in  him, 
they  heard  a  howl  far  up  among  the  chambers,  so  wild,  so  full 
of  sorrow  and  the  distress  of  despair,  that  their  strong  hearts 
almost  stopped  beating. 

Having  determined  that  Captain  Hank  was  not  dead,  a  single 
officer  was  left  to  watch  him,  while  the  remainder,  with  solemn 
faces,  mounted  the  stairs,  led  by  the  brute  voice  that  bewailed 
his  lost  master,  to  the  room  where  he  lay. 

It  was  a  plain  case.  Mr.  Benson,  with  whose  dignified  figure 
they  had  been  familiar  for  many  years,  was  dead,  by  a  mur- 
derer's hand.  The  twisted  handkerchief  by  which  the  awful 
deed  had  been  wrought  was  in  its  place,  and  the  print  of  cruel 
knuckles  beneath  it.  The  doer  of  the  awful  deed  had  forced  his 
way  into  the  house.  He  had  been  caught  in  the  house ;  and 
when  they  went  back  to  him,  too  sober  and  awe-stricken  to 
upbraid  or  curse  him,  they  found  upon  his  person  the  evidences 
that  he  had  been  in  the  room  of  the  murdered  man. 

Captain  Hank  had  opened  his  eyes.  He  looked  wildly 
about  him,  and  saw  that  he  was  a  captive. 


390  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"Take  care  of  the  dog,"  he  grovtled  huskily,  "or  I'll  shoot 
him." 

"Ay,  old  fellow,  and  we'll  take  care  of  you,  too,"  was  the 
response. 

They  tried  to  lift  him. 

"Hold  on,  boys  !  let  me  think,"  he  said. 

"You'll  have  time  enough  to  think  between  this  and  the 
rope,"  was  the  answer.  "  Get  up,  if  you  can,  or  we'll  help 
you." 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  repeated  Captain  Hank.  "There's 
something  I  want  to  say.  I  can't  quite  get  hold  on't.  What 
was  it  about  the  rope  ?  Oh,  look  here  !  Benson's  dead." 

"Yes,  we  know  that,  and  we  know  who  killed  him,  too." 

"  See  here !  He  was  dead  when  I  found  him.  Now  I  re- 
member all  about  it." 

"That  won't  go  down,  Captain  Hank.  You've  left  your 
mark  on  him." 

"  Boys,"  said  Captain  Hank,  with  a  harsh  oath,  "  this  is 
rough  on  a  hard-workin'  and  slow-savin'  man,  as  comes  here  by 
app'intment,  to  collect  his  honest  debts.  Old  Benson  owed 
me  a  pile,  an'  he  telled  me  he'd  pay  to-night,  an'  he  wasn't  up 
to  his  bargain.  He  couldn't  be.  He  was — he  was — dead  ! 
I  found  him  dead. " 

A  chorus  of  derisive  laughter  was  all  the  response  that  Cap- 
tain Hank  received  for  his  attempt  at  explanation  and  justifica- 
tion, and,  with  a  groan,  he  realized  at  last  the  adverse  verdict 
of  appearances,  and  saw  before  him  a  murderer's  death. 

"Boys,  I'm  in  for  it,"  he  said,  as  he  struggled  to  his  feet,  and 
supported  himself  against  the  newel  of  the  staircase. 

Meantime  the  dog  had  descended,  and  stood  guarding  the 
door.  They  patted  his  head,  and  told  him  his  work  was  done ; 
and  as  they  opened  the  door  into  the  street,  he  rushed  out,  and 
that  was  the  last  that  was  seen  of  him.  His  new  master  was 
gone,  and  he  went  out  on  his  fruitless  quest  for  the  old,  to  be- 
come the  degraded  occupant  of  some  squatter's  shanty  in  the 
outer  streets,  or  a  vagabond  with  his  houseless  fellows. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  39* 

A  force  was  left  in  charge  of  the  house,  and  Captain  Hank 
was  conveyed  to  prison,  stoutly  asserting  all  the  way  that  he  had 
committed  no  crime,  but  was  only  trying  to  reclaim  his  own 
"  by  app'intment.' 

As  Captain  Hank  is  not  a  pleasant  personage,  he  can  be  dis- 
missed here  with  the  statement  that  the  preliminary  courts  made 
short  work  with  him,  and  that,  on  his  trial,  he  had  no  defense 
worth  making.  But  up  to  the  moment  when  his  brutal  life  wag 
violently  ended  by  the  strong  arm  of  public  justice,  he  persisted 
in  the  statement  that  he  was  not  guilty  of  the  crime  charged 
upon  him. 

The  next  day  after  the  arrest  of  Captain  Hank,  New  York 
had  another  great  excitement,  and  the  crowd  before  Mr.  Ben- 
son's door  was  larger  than  it  was  on  the  previous  day.  Those 
who  had  known  Mr.  Benson  in  the  days  of  his  power  and  popu- 
larity, could  not  resist  the  inclination  to  pass  his  door  and  look 
up  at  the  walls  that  hid  his  mortal  remains.  The  hideous,  filthy 
men  and  women  who  swarm  in  the  bar-rooms  and  brothels, 
crept  out  of  their  hiding  places,  attracted  by  the  scent  of  crime, 
and  gazed  at  the  notorious  mansion.  The  victims  of  Mr.  Ben- 
son's breach  of  trust  came  to  bid  farewell  to  all  hope  of  regain- 
ing their  lost  treasures,  and  returned  to  drop,  one  after  an- 
other, into  hopeless  pauperism.  For  a  whole  solemn  and  sick- 
ening week,  the  street  was  forsaken  by  passing  vehicles,  to  avoid 
the  lazy,  curious  crowd. 

And  then  came,  too,  the  sad  unfolding  of  Mr.  Benson's 
deceits,  malversations,  wholesale  breaches  of  trust,  slaughters 
of  the  fortunes  of  widows  and  orphans,  and  of  crimes  for  which 
none  dared  to  make  excuse.  The  public  journals  were  full  of 
the  matter  for  many  days.  The  church  was  scandalized,  and 
careless  and  scoffing  paragraph- writers  flung  his  unseemly 
record  and  his  awful  hypocrisies  in  its  face.  The  men  who  had 
regarded  him  as  an  honorable  citizen  and  a  worthy  companion, 
looked  at  each  other  with  distrust — almost  in  despair.  If  such 
a  man  as  he  could  fall, — if  such  a  reputation  as  his  was  value- 
less, —if  a  man  who  had  been  almost  bo'astfully  devoted  to  duty 


392  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

could  be  basely  selfish,  and  even  trade  upon  his  own  virtue^ 
who  and  what  were  there  left  to  be  trusted?  His  death 
and  disgrace  shook  the  very  foundations  of  public  and  pri- 
vate faith,  and  helped  to  make  virtue  and  piety  old  frippery,  to 
be  kicked  about  the  streets  by  heedless  or  spiteful  feet.  Pub- 
lic and  private  integrity  was  made  a  by-word  by  ten  thousand 
ribald  tongues,  and  the  robes  of  Christianity  were  smutched  by 
foul  hands,  as  she  walked  along  the  streets  or  took  refuge 
in  her  gaudy  sanctuaries,  shame -faced  and  silent.  It  was  a 
great  public  calamity,  by  the  side  of  which  the  loss  of  a  few 
dollars  by  the  suffering  poor  was  as  nothing. 

Mrs.  Benson  and  her  family  were  so  crushed  by  the  death 
and  disgrace  of  the  husband  and  father  that  they  could  not  at- 
tend his  funeral.  So  the  coroner  held  his  inquest,  and  when  he 
came  to  his  conclusion,  which  involved  the  death  of  still  another 
man,  a  few  formal  rites  were  observed,  attended  by  old  friends 
for  humanity's  sake,  and  then  Mr.  Benson  was  committed  to 
his  last  resting-place.  Then  some  new  excitement  crowded 
the  old  out  of  mind,  and  the  world  rolled  on  as  before. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  execrate  his  memory.  He  was  imperfect, 
or  he  would  not  have  been  a  man.  He  was  sinful,  or  he  would 
not  have  been  mortal.  He  was  tempted:  who  is  not?  He 
yielded  to  temptation:  who  does  not?  He  was  mistaken — 
mistaken  in  himself,  mistaken  in  the  spirit  of  the  religion  he 
professed,  mistaken  in  the  motive  which  ordered  his  relations  to 
the  world  around  him.  None  may  cast  a  stone  at  him.  All 
may  toss  one  upon  his  dishonored  grave,  to  heap  a  warning 
that  may  drive  every  erring  man  to  his  knees  in  prayer  foi 
manliness,  and  wisdom,  and  power  to  resist  temptation. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  TRIBULATIONS  OF  MRS.  COATES,  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  HER 
"OFFSPRING,"  REACH  A  CLIMAX. 

IT  was  a  terrific  storm,  a  lurid  sunset,  a  night  of  slowly 
coming  stars,  and  a  morning.  Mr.  Benson's  history  was  within 
the  horizon  of  the  little  group  of  friends  which  engages  this 
swiftly  ripening  narrative.  They  were  all  shocked  and  sad- 
dened by  the  closing  events  of  that  history,  but  youthful  elas- 
ticity, interest  in  daily  cares,  and  springing  hopes  and  anticipa- 
tions, left  the  burden  behind,  to  be  recalled  only  at  rare 
intervals,  by  a  chance  suggestion. 

In  the  mansion  of  Mr.  Coates  there  was  an  unhappy  woman. 
Mrs.  Coates  had  seen  the  season  pass  by,  and  still  Jenny 
seemed  to  be  no  nearer  the  consummation  of  the  maternal 
hopes  than  she  was  at  its  beginning.  Nicholas,  from  whom  she 
had  expected  so  much  at  first,  was  past  plotting  and  praying 
for.  The  victim  of  the  "numb  palsy"  had  not  only  ceased  to 
be  a  victim,  but  had  secured  the  prize  so  fondly  and  greedily 
coveted  for  Jenny ;  and  Jenny  had  seemed  to  be  not  only  con- 
tent  with  her  friend's  triumph,  but  heartily  glad  of  it.  And 
there  were  the  happy  lovers,  in  Mrs.  Coates's  own  house, 
flaunting  their  happy  loves  in  Jenny's  face  ! 

It  was  a  great  trial,  and  when  Jenny  laughed  at  her  mother's 
foolishness,  the  tearful  response  was  : 

"Wait  till  you  know  a  mother's  feelings,  though  goodness 
knows  when  you'll  get  a  chance  !  As  I  told  your  father  about 
his  being  converted,  it  doesn't  look  as  if  you'd  catch  cold  with 
die  suddenness  of  it." 

Then  Jenny  would  laugh  again,  at  the  utterly  unconscious 
waggery  of  the  reply. 

Mrs.  Coates  had  another  trial.     Glezen  was  Jenny's  very 
17* 


394  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

attentive  friend.  He  visited  her  frequently,  spent  long  hours 
with  her  at  the  piano,  read  with  her,  and  became  her  devotee 
escort  to  concerts  and  assemblies  ;  but,  in  Mrs.  Coates's  impa- 
tient and  practical  eyes,  he  was  like  a  dog  in  a  manger.  He 
would  neither  appropriate  the  food  within  his  reach,  nor  permit 
others  to  approach  it.  It  was  this  aspect  of  the  matter  which 
offended  and  grieved  Mrs.  Coates.  If  he  wanted  Jenny,  why 
didn't  he  say  so  ?  He  was  having  a  nice  time  at  her  expense  ! 

Not  that  the  fond  mother  approved  of  what  she  was  pleased 
to  call  "  a  perfessional  man,"  who  had  not  yet  become  fore- 
handed. And  not  that  she  would  be  unreasonable  and  op- 
pose "a  perfessional  man,"  if  Jenny  should  perfer  one.  Not 
at  all !  She  would  make  any  sacrifice  for  Jenny's  happiness, 
who,  of  course,  always  refused  to  be  anything  but  happy. 

If  Jenny  was  unimpressible  or  refused  to  make  any  attempt 
to  consider  herself  a  mother,  in  order  that  she  might  be  able  to 
fathom  the  maternal  anxiety  on  her  behalf,  Mr.  Coates  had  the 
insensibility  of  the  nether  millstone.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mrs. 
Coates  assured  him  that  Jenny's  affections  were  trifled  with, 
that  her  youth  was  wasting  away  in  unproductive  dalliance  with 
opportunities,  that  if  she  were  a  man  she  would  either  bring 
Glezen  to  his  knees  or  give  him  his  "  walking  papers,"  and  that 
if  he  could  look  on  and  see  his  own  flesh  and  blood  sacrificed 
to  a  trifler,  he  was  worse  than  an  infidel. 

"  G-Glezen's  a  sly  d-dog,"  Mr.  Coates  would  respond,  in  a 
rasping  way,  which  indicated  that  he  rather  enjoyed  his  trifling, 
and  particularly  delighted  in  its  effect  upon  the  wife  of  his 
bosom. 

"Y-yes,  Glezen  enjoys  g-girls.  I  used  to  enjoy 'em  m-my- 
self.  I  1-like  'em  n-now." 

"  You're  not  a  mother,"  Mrs.  Coates  was  wont  to  rejoin,  in 
a  tone  that  seemed  steeped  in  sorrow  that  she  could  find  no 
one  who  could  sympathize  in  her  anxieties. 

"  Don't  bl-ame  me,  w-wife.     I  n-never  had  half  a  ch-chance, 
were  the  cold  words  which  drove  her  to  other  resorts. 

Finding  that  neither  Jenny  nor  her  father  could  be  induced 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  395 

to  assist  in  bringing  a  pressure  to  bear  upon  Glezen,  she  deter- 
mined to  make  her  next  trial  upon  Nicholas  and  Miss  Larkin, 
whose  completed  arrangement  fronted  the  distressed  mother  as 
a  reproach. 

The  winter  had  passed  away.  The  tardy  spring  had  come 
and  almost  gone.  March,  with  its  winds,  had  blown  out  its 
boisterous  breath.  April,  with  its  long,  sweet  rains  and  its 
fickle  shine  and  shadow,  had  steeped  the  earth  with  fruitful- 
ness,  and  May  had  clothed  the  parks  with  green  and  dressed 
the  trees  with  tender  foliage.  The  dead  year  was  alive  again, 
and  the  day  was  rapidly  approaching  when  Nicholas  was  to 
leave  the  city  for  his  home,  with  his  fair  companion  at  his  side. 

Spring  is  for  love  and  the  young.  To  the  old,  who  have 
retained  their  integrity,  the  spring  grows  to  be  more  and  more 
a  miracle.  The  skies  are  never  more  tenderly  sweet,  the  young 
verdure  and  the  bursting  flowers  never  more  marvelous  and  en- 
chanting, the  rivers,  gleaming  in  the  climbing  sun,  never  brighter 
to  any  than  to  those  who,  still  true  to  truth  and  purity,  are  see- 
ing their  closing  years.  But  the  spring  is  not  a  part  of  them- 
selves. They  see  more  of  God  in  it.  and  less  of  human  life. 
They  look  upon  it  from  the  outside,  as  a  beautiful  thing  from 
which  their  own  life  is  retiring.  They  look  forward  to  it,  they 
look  at  it,  they  look  back  upon  it,  but  they  are  not  in  it  and  of 
it.  The  season  has  not  a  part  of  its  birth  in  their  own  hearts. 
Is  it  that  they  are  half  or  wholly  conscious  that  their  life  has 
gone  forward  and  united  itself  with  another  spring,  of  which  the 
springs  they  are  about  to  leave  are  types  ? 

Very  different  is  the  spring  to  the  young  !  Hopes  are  spring- 
ing with  the  grass.  Loves  are  opening  with  flowers.  Plans  are 
clothing  themselves  with  foliage.  Blood  is  set  free  and  courses 
with  the  rivers.  Eyes  grow  bright  with  the  sun.  The  breezes 
the  languors,  and  all  the  sights  and  sounds  and  influences  of  the 
delicious  season  are  answered  or  matched  by  sensations  and 
emotions  which  prove  that  spring  is  as  much  a  part  of  the  ani- 
mal life  of  youth  as  it  is  a  part  of  the  vegetable  life  of  the  field. 
Ah  !  those  springs  that  annually  come  to  the  life  of  the  young ! 


396  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Are  they  n  Jt  the  consummate  blossomings  of  existence  ?  Are 
they  not  the  stuff  of  which  poetry  is  made  ?  When  we  grow 
old  and  get  outside  of  them,  do  we  not  go  back  to  them  to 
gather  our  fairest  flowers,  and  steep  our  senses  in  their  per- 
fumes ? 

•  Spring  had  come  to  Nicholas.  He  had  been  doing  the  work 
of  an  earnest  man,  and  now  he  felt  that  he  was  a  boy  again.  A 
great,  inexpressible  joy  had  taken  possession  of  him.  He  was 
happy,  high-spirited,  playful.  His  engagement  with  Grace 
Larkin  was  made  public,  and  hearty  congratulations  met  both 
of  them  on  every  hand.  She  was  growing  stronger  with  every 
passing  month ;  and,  as  she  reviewed  the  history  of  the  year,  she 
felt,  with  the  warmest  and  humblest  gratitude,  that  she  had  been 
the  subject  of  the  divinest  care, — felt,  almost,  that  miracles  had 
been  wrought  on  her  behalf.  She  felt,  too,  that  something  of  a 
miracle  had  been  wrought  in  and  upon  Nicholas  himself.  The 
quiet,  aimless,  reticent,  bashful  boy  had  been  developed  into  a 
self-possessed,  forceful,  ready-witted,  and  active  man,  of  whom 
she  was  not  only  fond  but  proud.  Out  from  under  the  shadow 
of  Mr.  Benson  and  Mr.  Benson's  home,  out  from  under  the 
shadow  of  her  long  invalidism,  out  from  under  the  shadow  of 
the  brooding  despairs  which  her  happy  temperament  and  sub- 
missive piety  could  never  wholly  dissipate,  she  regained  her  old 
vivacity  and  esprit,  and  helped,  with  the  much  beloved  daughter 
of  the  house,  to  make  the  Coates  mansion  one  of  the  sunniest 
homes  in  the  city. 

Still  Mrs.  Coates  was  not  in  any  degree  sunny.  She  was  a 
mother,  with  a  daughter ;  and  the  gravity  of  the  tremendous 
responsibility  pressed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  crushed  her 
joys,  as  a  bowlder  weighing  a  ton  might  crush  the  flowers  upon 
a  mossy  bank,  and  press  the  bank  itself  to  wasteful  weeping. 

Failing,  as  has  been  said,  to  get  satisfaction  from  her  daughter, 
and  that  daughter's  most  unnatural  father,  she  had  determined 
to  try  her  experiment  upon  Nicholas  and  Grace  Larkin.  One 
day  the  group  was  all  to  be  collected  at  dinner,  and  she  knew, 
not  only  that  Nicholas  would  come  a  long  time  before  Glezen 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  397 

and  Mr.  Coates,  but  that  Jenny  would  cling  to  her  room,  and, 
obedient  to  the  golden  rule,  leave  the  lovers  to  themselves. 

This  was  her  opportunity ;  and  a  few  minutes  after  the  arrival 
of  Nicholas,  she  presented  herself  before  the  happy  pair,  with 
a  handkerchief  pinned  around  her  plump  throat  as  a  sort  of 
signal  of  distress,  and  a  lugubrious  expression  upon  her  face, 
which  they  might  have  attributed  to  a  toothache  if  she  had  not 
held  one  hand  over  the  region  of  her  heart. 

"I  expect  you  are  very  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  with  a 
sigh,  "  and  I  s'pose  I  ought  to  rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice, 
but  I  can't  always  command  my  feelings.  I've  often  said  to 
Mr.  Coates,  '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  let  it  never  be  said,  what- 
ever may  be  our  troubles,  that  we  don't  rejoice  with  them  that 
do  rejoice,  for  if  we  don't  do  it,  they  may  rejoice  in  our  calamity 
and  mock  when  our  fear  cometh,'  says  I ;  but  nobody  can  tell 
what  I  suffer  unless  she  is  a  mother.  Here's  Jenny,  slipping 
along  as  che'ful  as  a  lark,  and  not  thinking  a  thing  about  a — • 
about  a — pervision  for  life,  seeing  opportunities  as  thick  as 
spatter,  going  round  begging  for  takers,  and  she  just  turning  up 
her  nose  at  'em  !  It  almost  drives  me  distracted.  I've  often 
said  to  her,  'Jenny,'  says  I,  'opportunities,'  says  I,  'are  things 
with  long  legs  and  quick  motions,  and  they  never  stop  to  play 
by  the  way.  Snatch  'em  by  the  garments,'  says  I,  'take  'em  by 
the  hair,'  says  I,  'if  necessary,  but  don't  let  'em  go  by.  You 
don't  ordain  'em,'  says  I ;  '  they  are  sent  in  mercy  for  you  to 
make  the  most  of,  and  it's  a  shame  and  a  sin  for  you  to  set  and 
see  'em  get  out  of  your  reach,  so  that  you  couldn't  touch  'em 
with  a  ten-foot  pole,  if  you  wanted  to  ever  so  much.'" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Nicholas, 
with  an  expression  of  mingled  mirth  and  mystification. 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  do,"  responded  Mrs.  Coates; 
"but  if  you  were  a  mother  you  could  understand  it." 

"But  you  know  the  difficulties,  Mrs.  Coates,"  said  Nicholas, 
biting  his  lips. 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  difficulties.  You  can't  see  anything  now 
but  Grace  Larkin.  I've  sometimes  thought  it  would  have  been 


398  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

better  if  I'd  been  took  away  when  the  measles  went  so  hard 
with  me,  and  all  I  could  say  was  '  catnip,'  and  if  I  hadn't  said 
« catnip,'  Mr.  Coates  would  have  been  a  widower,  and  Prover- 
dence  would  have  looked  after  Jenny.  Proverdence," — and 
Mrs.  Coates  regarded  Grace  with  a  mourning,  tearful  gaze, — 
"  seems  to  do  more  for  a  gal  than  a  maternal  parent.  Here's 
Grace,  with  nobody  to  look  after  her  but  Proverdence,  making 
out  well,  and  all  I  do  comes  to  nothing." 

Nicholas  and  Grace  were  exceedingly  amused,  but  held  their 
countenances  in  respectful  repose. 

"  Is  there  anything  that  we  can  do  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas,  who 
was  sure  that  Mrs.  Coates  had  come  in  with  some  practical 
purpose  on  hand. 

"  When  I  was  a  gal,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  "  attentions  meant 
something.  Now,  they  don't  seem  to  mean  anything.  A 
young  perfessional  man  can  hang  around  a  young  woman,  who 
has  not  made  her  pervision  for  life,  month  after  month,  scaring 
everybody  else  away,  and  tempting  her  to  sacrifice  all  her  op- 
portunities, and  it's  nothing !  It's  just  nothing  at  all !  They 
are  only  having  a  good  time  !  They  play  and  sing  together, 
and  he  puts  her  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and  she  smiles  in  his 
face  and  says  :  '  thank  you  ! '  and  he  'scorts  her  when  she  goes 
anywhere,  and  he  comes  and  goes,  and  comes  and  goes,  and 
conies  and  goes,  and  that's  all  there  is  of  it !  I  get  so  pro- 
voked sometimes  that  it  seems  as  if  I  should  bust.  I've  said 
to  Mr.  Coates,  again  and  again,  '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  are  you 
aware  that  your  daughter's  affections  are  being  trifled  with  ? 
Do  you  realize  that  there  is  a  snake  in  the  grass,  and  that  it's 
your  duty  to  bring  his  nose  to  the  grin  stone  ?  You  have  a 
responsibility,'  says  I.  '  You  don't  like  to  have  a  man  running 
into  your  store  every  day,  looking  over  your  goods  and  tasting 
of  your  sugar  and  your  tea,  and  never  buying  a  thing.'  " 

Nicholas  understood  the  drift  of  these  remarks,  and  was  not 
a  little  embarrassed  by  them.  He  had  introduced  Glezen  to 
the  family,  with  the  best  intentions,  and  a  hope  that  was  very 
strongly  sympathetic  with  that  of  Mrs.  Coates,  but  between  the 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN,  399 

two  young  men  the  name  of  the  young  lady  in  question  was 
very  rarely  mentioned.  Glezen  was  not  communicative  con- 
cerning his  own  private  affairs ;  and  Nicholas  would  not  ob- 
trude upon  him  the  delicate  question  which  he  was  almost  as 
desirous  of  having  answered  as  Mrs.  Coates  herself. 

"  You  can  allude  to  no  one,  I  suppose,  but  my  friend 
Glezen,"  said  Nicholas,  "and  you  must  let  me  say  this  for  him, 
at  least,  that  he  is  upright  and  honorable,  and  would,  if  he  knew 
it,  no  more  harm  your  daughter  than  he  would  harm  one  of  his 
own  eyes.  I  am  sure  that  he  is  pleased  with  her." 

"Then  why  don't  he  come  to  time,  and  popose  ?  That's 
what  I'd  like  to  know  ;"  and  Mrs.  Coates  pressed  her  lips  to- 
gether, and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Larkin,  "  he  may  fear  a  refusal,  or  the 
objection  of  her  parents." 

The  last  suggestion  was  too  much  for  Nicholas,  who  suddenly 
rose,  and  went  to  the  window  to  hide  his  smiles. 

"Well,  that  may  be,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  softening  under  the 
flattering  thought.  "  That  may  be,  and  I  must  say  that  I  did 
not  intend  to  have  Jenny  marry  a  perfessional  man,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  stand  in  the  way,  if  Jenny  is  satisfied.  I've  said  to 
Mr.  Coates,  many's  the  time,  '  Mr.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  it's  all  very 
well  for  you  to  make  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  on  a  jump  in 
sugar,  but  a  man  isn't  to  blame  for  being  a  lawyer,'  says  I. 
'  He's  got  to  get  a  living  some  way.  Don't  be  hard  on  the 
perfessions,'  says  I.  '  We've  got  enough  for  both  of  'em,  and 
you  know,'  says  I,  '  that  we  should  never  think  of  marrying  off 
Jenny  without  giving  her  a  house,  and  furnishing  it  with  the 
best,  if  her  husband  was  as  rich  as  mud.  Let  it  not  be  said,' 
says  I,  '  that  you  and  I  should  stand  in  the  way  of  our  own  flesh 
'and  blood,  even  if  they  can't  see  the  way  clear  to  our  ideas.'  " 

Mrs.  Coates  had  now  imparted  all  the  information  necessary 
for  a  vigorous  prosecution  of  a  campaign  against  Glezen,  if 
Nicholas  and  Miss  Larkin  should  see  fit  to  undertake  it.  She 
had  let  down  the  bars  to  the  pasture,  salted  the  rocks,  and 
shaded  the  spring  ;  and  she  felt  that  Nicholas  and  Grace  would 


400  NICHOLAS  MINTURiv. 

indeed  be  ingrate  if  they  should  not  manage,  in  some  way,  to 
drive  this  lawless  creature,  so  prone  to  grazing  by  the  roadside 
and-  browsing,  across  the  fence,  within  the  charmed  enclosure. 

At  this  moment,  however,  the  guilty  man  appeared,  and 
saved  to  the  lovers  the  necessity  of  making  a  response  to  the 
suggestions  of  their  hostess. 

Glezen  had  left  the  office  earlier  than  his  wont,  because  this 
was  a  special  occasion.  He  was  in  great  spirits,  and  brought 
into  the  room  a  most  fresh  and  inspiring  breeze  of  vitality.  He 
only  paused  to  give  Mrs.  Coates  and  the  younger  members  of 
the  group  a  hearty  greeting,  and  then  he  went  directly  to  the 
piano,  and  reveled  among  its  grander  chords,  as  if  he  were 
plunging  into  the  ocean  surf,  and  eYijoying  the  rhythmic  wind 
and  wave  like  a  strong  swimmer. 

Mrs.  Coates  regarded  him  with  mingled  resentment  and  dis- 
tress. This  was  his  old  trick  for  calling  Jenny  down.  She  had 
been  familiar  with  it  for  months.  Whenever  the  door  bell  rang 
in  the  evening,  and  the  piano  was  almost  simultaneously  aroused 
from  its  afternoon  nap,  both  Mrs.  Coates  and  Jenny  knew  what 
it  meant. 

"It's  Mr.  Glezen,  mother,"  Jenny  used  to  say,  "and  I  shall 
have  to  go  down,"  with  a  happy  twinkle  in  her  eye  and  a  smile 
on  her  lips. 

And  then  Mrs.  Coates  would  respond  :  "Jenny,  I  wouldn't 
touch  to  go  down.  I'd  rnake  him  send  up  his  card  like  other 
folks.  I  wouldn't  be  called  as  if  I  was  a  heifer  ;  and  I  don't 
think  much  of  a  man  who  always  comes  with  a  band  of  music, 
and  his  banners  hanging  on  the  outer  wall." 

And  here  he  was  again,  rollicking  in  music  in  the  old  fashion, 
and  her  mother  knew  that  at  that  moment  Jenny  had  risen 
and  was  looking  into  her  mirror,  to  make  sure  that  she  was  pre- 
sentable to  the  man  who  was  so  carelessly  toying  with  her  vir- 
gin affections. 

There  was  a  rustling  of  silk  upon  the  stairs,  a  lively  tripping 
of  feet,  and  then  Jenny  swept  into  the  room,  her  eyes  alight^ 
her  cheeks  blooming,  and  a  welcome  upon  her  lips,  for  her  ac 


fc 
NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  401 

custDmei  visitor.  Mrs.  Coates  watched  her  entrance  with 
equal  pride  and  pain,  and  witnessed  her  almost  affectionate 
meeting  with  the  young  man  who  seemed  to  be  so  unmindful 
of  the  obligations  which  his  "attentions"  imposed  upon  him. 

The  handkerchief  of  Mrs.  Coates  still  clung  to  her  neck,  and 
her  hand  to  her  heart,  while  the  sadness  which  pervaded  every 
cubic  inch  of  her  plump  personality  found  expression  in  sighs, 
and  indistinct  murmurs,  and  a  look  compounded  of  impotent 
anger,  unavailing  desire,  and  maternal  pity  for  her  "  off- 
spring," 

"Oh,  people,  people,  people  1"  exclaimed  Glezen,  jumping 
up  from  the  piano.  "  I've  tried  my  first  case  of  breach  of 
promise  to-day.  It  was  ari  awful  case,  but  it  was  great  fun. 
You  ought  to  have  heard  me  pitch  into  the  faithless  lover. 
There  wasn't  anything  left  of  him  when  I  finished.  There  were 
several  old  women  in  the  court-room  whose  eyes  actually  swam 
in  a  briny  flood." 

"  Give  us  your  speech,  Glezen,"  said  Nicholas. 

Glezen  struck  an  oratorical  attitude,  and  began  : 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  see  before  you  a — shall  I  say 
man,  or  person  ? — a  person,  who,  intent  on  the  gratification  of 
his  own  unbridled  vanity,  enters  a  peaceful  home,  shares  the 
hospitality  earned  and  proffered  by  an  industrious  father,  and 
a  virtuous  and  affectionate  mother,  wins  their  beloved  daughter 
by  all  tender  assiduities  of  affection — all  those  subtle  arts  by 
which,  from  time  immemorial,  the  lover  has  moved  to  respon- 
siveness the  heart  of  his  mistress — plights  his  sacred  troth  to 
her,  fixes  the  happy  day,  and  then,  basely,  perfidiously,  insult- 
ingly, outrageously,  forsakes  her,  tramples  on  her  affections 
and  his  own  honor,  and  consigns  her  to  the  cold  realms  of  re- 
jected maidenhood,  to  be  a  scoffing  and  a  by-word  among  her 
sex,  and  an  outcast  from  the  affections  of  men  !  What,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  shall  I  say  of  this  man — this  person  ?  How 
shall  I  characterize  him  ?  Shall  I  call  him  a  viper  entering  an 
Eden  to  despoil  and  destroy  ? — a  thief,  who  robs  a  mansion  of 
its  treasure,  for  the  mere  excitement  of  theft,  and  then  wan- 


4o2  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

tonly  drops  his  stolen  goods  in  the  street,  though  they  be  the 
very  household  gods  of  the  family  he  has  bereft  ? — an  incendi- 
ary, who  wins  his  way  into  a  house  by  flattering  courtesies,  and 
then  sets  it  on  fire  and  burns  it  to  the  ground,  while  he  looks 
on  and  gloats  over  the  smoking  ruins  ? — a  liar,  who  steals  the 
livery  of  heaven  to  serve  the  devil  in  ? — a  scamp,  a  wretch,  a 
scorpion,  a  miscreant  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it's  a  proper  thing  for  a  woman  to  bet,"  said 
Mrs.  Coates,  whose  face  had  been  growing  red  through  every 
moment  of  the  mock  harangue ;  "  but  if  it  was,  I'd  be  willing 
to  bet  five  dollars  that  the  man  played  on  the  piano." 

' '  No,  madam,'1  said  Glezen,  who  saw  the  point  with  painful 
distinctness,  though  determined  not  to  betray  his  consciousness ; 
"  the  man  had  no  music  in  his  soul.  He  was  only  fit  for  trea- 
sons, stratagems,  and  spoils.  Indeed,  I  think  I  made  a  remark 
of  that  kind  in  court,  though  I'm  not  altogether  certain." 

Mrs.  Coates  had  discharged  her  shot,  and  thought  she  saw 
that  her  missile  was  lodged  where  it  would  rankle.  So,  amid 
an  awkward  stillness  that  seemed  to  settle  upon  the  group,  and 
with  an  expression  of  melancholy  spite  about  the  corners  of 
her  mouth,  she  retired  from  the  room. 

Glezen  and  Miss  Coates  exchanged  amused  glances,  and 
then  Mr.  Coates  came  in. 

"  W-what  have  you  been  d-doing?"  inquired  Mr.  Coates, 
who  seemed  to  feel  as  if  he  had  interrupted  some  action  or  con- 
versation. 

"  I've  been  making  a  speech,"  said  Glezen,  with  a  laugh. 

"S-successful?" 

"Yes  ;  more  have  stayed  in  than  have  gone  out." 

"  G-good  t-test !  "  said  Mr.  Coates.    "  W-who's  run  away  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Coates,"  replied  Glezen. 

"  T-too  warm,  I  s'pose.  B-butter  always  runs  away  when 
the  w-weather  gets  too  hot  for  it." 

During  the  laugh  that  followed  this  philosophical  explana- 
tion, dinner  was  announced,  and  Mrs.  Coates  was  discovered 
already  at  the  table.  She  was  in  her  silent  rnood,  and  had  de« 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  403 

termined  that  Glezen  should  understand  that  in  her  own  mind 
she  held  him  to  be  all  that  he  had  described  in  the  man  whom 
he  had  denounced. 

"Well,  Mr.  Minturn,"  said  Mr.  Coates,  good-naturedly,  "I 
s-suppose  this  f-nnishes  the  s-season, — pretty  much." 

"Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  "I  have  attended  to  everything  but 
one." 

"M-married  n— next  week,  eh  ?  " 

Nicholas  blushed,  and  looked  at  Miss  Larkin  involuntarily, 
who  blushed  in  return. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  said. 

"  Nicholas,  how  is  '  The  Atheneum  ?  ' "  inquired  Glezen. 

"  Going  on  swimmingly.  Talking  Tim  has  all  he  can  do, 
and  finds  the  reading-rooms  full  every  night.  It  looks  as  if 
they  were  going  to  try  to  get  along  without  me  there.  I  feel  a 
little  jealous  of  the  men  who  have  the  lead." 

"  And  you've  got  your  bonds  back  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks  to  you  ;  but  Captain  Hank  seems  to  be  taken 
out  of  my  hands,  and  the  other  robbers  have  run  away.  Never 
mind  ;  let  them  go.  I  don't  think  they'll  trouble  me  again." 

"And  you  are  satisfied  with  your  winter's  work,  aren't  you, 
Nicholas  ?  "  said  Glezen. 

<f  Yes,  on  the  whole, — only  Benson  has  made  more  paupers 
than  I  have  cured.  There's  a  new  crop  coming  on,  and  there 
doesn't  seem  to  be  any  end  of  the  business." 

"  B-boys,"  said  Mr.  Coates,  "  there  are  t-two  ends  to  it. 
There  are  the  b-big  paupers,  who  t-try  to  g-get  a  living  with 
out  work,  and  the  1-little  ones." 

Miss  Larkin's  eyes  lighted  at  this. 

"  There,  Mr.  Coates,"  said  she,  "  you  have  touched  a  secret 
that  we  have  all  failed  to  discover.  There  are  so  many  among 
the  nominally  respectable  who  try  to  get  a  living  without  work, 
and  they  absorb  so  much  for  themselves,  that  there  really  is  not 
enough  left  for  the  paupers  at  the  other  end  of  the  social  scale, 
who  are  only  following  their  poisonous  example,  and  repeating 
their  measures  in  baser  ways." 


404  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

"  Y-yes, '  responded  Mr.  Coates.  "  We're  all  ttnder  one 
b-blanket,  and  w-when  we  get  t-too  much  of  it  over  the 
h-head,  the  t-toes  stick  out,  and  g-get  cold." 

"  True,"  said  Glezen,  who  had  a  quick  apprehension  of  the 
force  of  the  figure  ;  "  and  when  the  blanket  is  pulled  down  ovei 
the  feet,  and  tucked  in,  you  have  another  batch  of  paupers  at 
the  other  end." 

"Well,  we  have  enlarged  our  definition  of  pauperism 
with  a  jump,  and  the  matter  looks  worse  than  ever,"  said  Nich 
olas. 

"  Then  let's  drop  it,"  said  Mrs.  Coates,  sharply,  with  a  mind 
preoccupied  by  another  subject,  hardly  less  painful  to  herself. 

"I've  often  said  to "  here  she  checked  herself,  and  looked 

first  at  Mr.  Coates  and  then  at  Jenny, — "  to  myself,"  she  went 
on,  "  '  Mrs.  Coates,'  says  I,  '  never  despise  the  poor,  and  re- 
member who  made  you  to  differ.  You  might  have  married  a 
shiftless  man — yourself,'  says  I,  '  or  a  perfessional  man,  and  it's 
not  for  you  to  carry  a  high  head,  nor  a  high  hand,  neither,'  says  I. 
'  But  when  it  conies  to  be  paupers,  paupers,  paupers, — nothing 
but  paupers, — and  we  are  obliged  to  have  them  on  the  dinner- 
table,  I  think  its  time  to  stop  and  'tend  to  our  own  obligations. 
There's  other  things  to  be  done  besides  paupers.  Charity 
begins  at  home ;  and  if  we  must  talk  about  pauperism,  let  us 
talk  about  pauperism  of  the  heart, — for  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
pauperism  of  the  heart.'  " 

"Can  you  tell  us  how  it  manifests  itself?"  inquired  Glezen, 
leaning  forward,  his  face  aglow  with  fun. 

"  Yes  !   Manifests  itself !    I  should  think  so  ! " 

And  she  sawed  her  head  forward  and  backward  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  get  it  loose  enough  to  throw  at  him. 

The  patience  of  Mrs.  Coates  was  worn  out.  Though  a 
placid  and  good-natured  woman,  the  deferred  hopes  in  regard 
to  her  "offspring"  were  telling  upon  her  spirits  and  her  dis- 
position with  a  terrible  effect. 

At  the  close  of  the  dinner,  there  was  music  again,  of  course, 
and  Mrs.  Coates  sat  and  watched  the  performers  with  sad  and 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  405 

solemn  eyes.  Under  the  dampening  influences  of  her  lugu- 
briousness,  conversation  flagged. 

Glezen  soon  rose  to  take  his  leave.  Mrs.  Coates  bade  him 
good-night,  with  a  sigh  that  would  have  melted  the  heart  of  a 
stone,  and  then  she  quietly  walked  back  into  the  dining-room, 
and  disappeared.  Mrs.  Coates  was  roused,  and  no  woman  who 
has  ever  been  the  mother  of  a  marriageable  daughter  should 
wonder  that,  under  the  circumstances,  she  had  determined  to 
witness,  perdu,  the  parting  of  Glezen  and  Jenny  in  the  hall. 

The  matter  was  worked  as  usual.  Glezen  took  leave  of  the 
remainder  of  the  family,  and  then  Jenny  accompanied  him  into 
the  hall.  The  eagle  eyes  of  aroused  maternity  were  upon 
them,  peering  out  through  a  crack  in  the  door  of  the  butler's 
pantry. 

She  saw  Glezen  and  her  daughter  quietly  chatting  together, 
while  he  drew  on  his  gloves  with  provoking  deliberation.  His 
quiet  self-assurance,  his  affectionate  and  familiar  demeanor,  his 
unruffled  and  satisfied  expression,  filled  her  with  rage.  Her 
quickened  heart  jarred  the  door,  while  her  half  suspended 
breathing  and  trembling  excitement  threatened  apoplexy. 

Then  she  saw  Glezen — oh,  horror  of  horrors  ! — stoop  over, 
and  imprint  on  her  darling  Jenny's  lips  a  kiss  !  She  heard  the 
kiss  !  She  saw  him  holding  her  daughter  fondly  by  both  hands  1 

This  was  too  much.  She  opened  the  door,  and  stamped 
bravely  and  swiftly  toward  them,  exclaiming :  "  See  here  !  see 
here,  young  man  !  That  won't  do  !  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  you  can't  come  here  and  trample  on  my  hospertalities  in 
this  way.  You're  a  pretty  man  to  make  speeches  to  a  jury 
about  snakes  and  incendiaries.  Yes  !  I  should  think  so  !  " 

And  then  this  dastard  put  his  arm  around  Jenny  and  kissed 
her  again.  Then,  whirling  her  out  of  the  way,  he  advanced 
boldly  toward  Mrs.  Coates  with  open  arms,  and  folding  her  as 
far  in  his  embrace  as  the  mechanical  difficulties  permitted, 
kissed  her,  exclaiming  : 

"Mother-in-law,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Coates  screamed  as  if  a  knife  had  been  driven  to  her 


406  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

heart.  The  family  rushed  to  the  door,  threw  it  open,  and  dis 
covered  Glezen  absorbed  in  the  effort  to  keep  Mrs.  Coates 
from  falling,  while  Jenny  was  fanning  her,  and  saying  : 

"  Mother  !  Mother  !     Don't !  don't !  " 

Glezen  led  the  distracted  woman  back  into  the  drawing-room 
where  Jenny  knelt  at  her  side,  and,  with  quiet  words  endeav- 
ored to  restore  her  to  self-control. 

Glezen,  meantime,  had  imparted  the  secret  of  the  strange 
exhibition  to  Mr.  Coates,  who  sat  in  his  chair,  and  shook  with 
great  internal  convulsions.  They  must  have  been  profound, 
for  they  did  not  reach  the  surface.  He  sat  and  regarded  the 
partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows,  his  lips  working  strangely,  and 
the  spasms  of  his  infernal  merriment  becoming  less  frequent  and 
powerful,  until  he  found  himself  in  a  condition  to  speak. 

"W-wife,"  said  he,  "  d-didn't  you  know  it  ?  I  must  have 
f-forgotten  to  t-tellyou.  I've  kn— own  it  these  th-ree  months." 

Then  Mrs.  Coates  cried.  It  is  the  last  straw  that  breaks  the 
camel's  back.  To  think  that  the  matter  had  been  settled  for 
three  months,  and  that  she  had  not  been  informed  of  it,  to 
think  that  the  paternal  blessing  had  been  sought  and  secured 
without  consulting  her,  to  think  that  this  precious  secret  had 
been  carried  around  locked  up  in  the  cruel  bosoms  of  husband 
and  daughter,  and  last  of  all,  to  think  that  she  had  made  such 
a  fool  of  herself,  was  too  much  for  her  motherly,  not  to  say  wifely 
sensibilities,  and  she  wept  real  tears — tears  that  might  have  been 
gathered  in  a  bottle — dews  of  feeling  that  even  the  sun  of 
happiness  could  not  dissipate — rains  that  the  sweet  west  winds 
of  satisfaction  could  not  dry. 

"  I  think  it's  mean  of  you  all,"  she  exclaimed,  when  she  got 
her  voice  for  a  moment. 

"  M-my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Coates,  "  the  y-young  p-people 
d-didn't  want  it  made  p-public." 

Jenny  saw  her  mother  safely  through  the  worst  of  it,  and  then 
rose  and  received  the  hearty  and  most  affectionate  congratu- 
lations of  Nicholas  and  Grace,  while  Glezen  stood  with  Mr 
Coates  and  watched  the  proceedings. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  407 

After  a  thunder-storm  has  spent  its  fury,  there  comes  a  period 
of  sweet,  still  rain,  when  trees  and  grass  and  flowers  receive  a 
sort  of  healing  baptism,  and  rise  from  the  prostrations  to  which 
the  tempest  has  forced  them  with  a  long-drawn  whisper  of 
satisfaction  and  gratitude. 

When  the  tempest  in  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Coates  had  subsided, 
something  like  this  natural  change  and  providential  ministry 
occurred.  The  birds  did  not  sing,  perhaps,  but  there  were 
pleasant  voices  around  her,  and  the  still  rain  went  on.  She 
could  not  stop  weeping.  She  did  not  wish  to  stop.  The  tears 
depleted  the  humors  of  her  overcharged  brain,  and  as  they  were 
mopped  away  she  was  conscious  of  a  great  happiness  dawning 
within  her.  To  do  the  good  woman  justice,  she  knew  that  she 
could  not  have  kept  the  secret  if  it  had  been  imparted  to  her. 
What  mattered  it,  so  long  as  no  one  else  had  known  it  ? 

But  still  she  cried.  The  clouds  were  exhaustless,  and  the 
clear  blue  sky  had  taken  to  raining. 

"  W-wife,"  said  Mr.  Coates,  "w-what  are  you  c-crying  for  ?  " 

"Humph!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Coates,  "it's  all  very  well  for 
you  to  talk  that  way,  but  you  little  know  the  feelings  of  a 
mother  when  she's  called  upon  to  part  with  her  offspring !  " 

The  equanimity  of  Mr.  Coates  was  utterly  destroyed.  The 
sudden  and  unexpected  tack  in  Mrs.  Coates's  feelings — or  rather 
her  "  change  of  base  " — took  him  off  his  guard,  and  he  burst 
into  a  "  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "  so  violently  spasmodic  that  every  syl- 
lable, though  engendered  in  his  sense  of  humor,  was  brought 
forth  in  pain.  The  occurrence  was  so  unusual  that  Mrs.  Coates 
actually  smiled ;  and  then  they  all  laughed  together.  The 
corners  of  Mrs.  Coates's  mouth  that  had  been  drawn  down  for 
so  many  weeks  changed  their  angle,  and  turned  up  again.  The 
plan  for  the  new  house  was  already  dawning  in  her  mind.  In- 
terminable privileges  for  the  expression  of  maternal  grief  in 
parting  with  a  daughter  stretched  before  her,  and  life  was  bright 
again. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

WHICH  BRINGS  THE   STORY  TO  AN   END   IN  A  WAY  VERY   SATIS- 
FACTORY  TO  NICHOLAS. 

THE  effort  that  Nicholas  had  made  to  transform  his  friends 
at  "  The  Atheneum  "  into  active,  self-supporting  men  and  women 
had  been  well  seconded  by  their  leaders,  with  whom  he  had 
been  upon  the  most  confidential  terms  of  association.  Talking 
Tim,  whom  they  all  knew  and  respected,  had  proved  himself  to 
be  a  most  important  re-enforcement  to  those  special  powers 
and  influences  concerned  in  reversing  the  attitude  of  the  exi- 
gent, recipient,  dependent  mass,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  had 
planted  his  life. 

Of  course,  "The  Beggars'  Paradise"  knew  that  Nicholas 
was  about  to  leave  the  city,  and  it  conceived  a  very  delightful 
interest  in  the  fact  that  he  expected  to  take  a  bride  with  him 
to  his  country  home.  In  some  way,  it  had  become  acquainted 
with  the  leading  incidents  in  the  life  of  both  the  young  people — 
incidents  which  lost  none  of  their  romance  by  being  passed 
from  hand  to  hand.  These  poor  men  and  women,  into  whose 
life  Nicholas  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing  so  much  that 
was  new,  significant  and  fruitful,  felt  their  hearts  going  out  to- 
ward him.  They  wanted  to  do  something  for  him. 

In  the  meantime,  Nicholas  had  sent  to  Ottercliff  the  pictures 
and  furniture  with  which  he  had  beautified  his  city  lodgings, 
and  Pont,  who  went  reluctantly  from  new  associations — not  to 
mention  certain  "  entangling  alliances  "  which  he  had  made, 
with  the  characteristic  facility  of  his  race — was  ordered  home 
with  all  the  heavy  luggage. 

The  heaviest  luggage,  however,  which  Pont  took  away  with 
him  was  his  heart. 

"'Pears  like  we's  goin'  away  from  de   promis'  land,  Mas'i 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  409 

Minturn,  — goin' back  into  de  wilderness  again,"  said  Pont  lugu- 
briously, as  he  was  taking  his  leave,  the  day  before  the  wed- 
ding of  his  master. 

'*  Oh,  nonsense,  Pont !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas.  "  You  know 
you  are  dying  to  get  home.  I  am.  I  never  wanted  to  see 
Ottercliff  so  much  in  my  life." 

"  Ah,  but  de  spirit  an'  de  bride  say  come  to  you,  Mas'r,  but 
de  spirit  and  de  bride  don't  say  noffin  to  dis  pusson.  I  don't 
have  no  spirit  an'  bride  to  take  home  with  me,  Mas'r." 

"  Well,  Pont,  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  and  now  go 
and  get  everything  ready  and  meet  me  at  the  train  to-morrow." 

After  Pont's  departure,  with  his  last  load,  the  rooms  which 
Nicholas  still  occupied  were  bare  and  cheerless,  but  it  was  into 
these  that  he  was  obliged  to  invite  a  large  delegation  from  "  The 
Atheneum,"  that  called  during  the  afternoon. 

They  came  with  a  gift  which,  with  the  formal  words  accom- 
panying it,  was  to  express  the  gratitude  of  themselves  and  those 
who  had  sent  them.  The  gift  was  a  humble  one, — simply  a 
handsome  walking  stick,  — but  it  furnished  an  opportunity  for  a 
manly  return  of  Christian  favor,  and  gave  Nicholas  one  more 
opportunity  to  reiterate  conclusions  which,  of  late,  had  been, 
rapidly  ripening  in  his  mind. 

The  spokesman  of  the  committee,  all  of  whom  seemed  to 
have  acquired  a  certain  dignity  from  being  intrusted  with  office, 
thanked  Nicholas  for  the  interest  he  had  taken  in  their  com- 
munity, and  for  the  excellent  results  that  had  followed  his 
efforts  on  their  behalf.  He  pledged  himself  and  his  associates 
and  constituents  to  the  work  which  their  benefactor  had  begun, 
and  expressed  the  hope  that  he  would  return  to  cheer  them  by 
his  presence,  direct  them  by  his  counsel,  and  inspire  them  by 
his  example. 

The  little  speech  was  delivered,  and  the  walking-stick  was 
presented  with  superfluous  formality ;  but  Nicholas  was  heartily 
pleased.  In  response,  he  thanked  the  delegation  for  the  gift 
they  had  brought  him,  and  then  said  :  "  I  feel  that  I  have  dona 
very  little  for  you  and  those  you  represent,  but  if  I  have  in- 
18 


410  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

spired  one  man  with  the  disposition  to  take  care  of  himself,  an  J 
taught  him  how  to  do  it,  I  have  not  failed.  To  lift  a  man  out 
of  pauperism  is  to  re-create  him.  Why,  my  friends,  there  are 
very  few  among  the  rich  who  can  withstand  the  poison  of 
unearned  money.  A  man  has  to  be  pretty  carefully  trained — 
has  to  be  specially  trained  for  it,  indeed — to  be  able  to  use  it 
without  ruining  himself,  or  to  keep  it  at  all.  Among  the  poor 
there  is  no  training  for  it,  and,  of  course,  it  ruins  them.  I 
haven't  got  very  far  along  in  this  matter,  but  I  am  far  enough 
along  to  see  that  it  is  a  thousand  times  better  for  a  man  to 
throw  away  his  fortune  upon  his  follies  than  it  is  to  debauch  a 
whole  community  by  his  benefactions.  I  am  far  enough  along 
to  see  that  charitable  relief,  as  an  established  safeguard  against 
the  results  of  intemperance,  idleness  and  improvidence,  oper- 
ates as  a  standing  premium  on  these  vices.  It  is  the  very 
mother  who  bears,  nurses  and  protects  them.  Charitable  relief, 
as  it  is  largely  administered  here  in  New  York  City,  is  practi- 
cally a  crime  against  society.  I  have  seen  enough  already  to 
prove  to  me  that,  as  a  rule,  pauperism  is  to  be  measured  by 
the  provision  that  is  made  for  its  relief.  If  I  were  to  announce 
that  one  hundred  millions  of  dollars  had  been  provided  to  shield 
the  people  of  the  city  from  want,  for  a  single  season,  there 
would  be  pauperism  enough  developed  by  the  announcement  to 
absorb  the  whole  sum.  Some  of  you  know  that  I  have  a 
scheme  for  the  radical  cure  of  pauperism.  I  may  say  that  there 
is  nothing  which  stands  so  much  in  the  way  of  it  as  the  charit- 
able societies,  and  the  men  who  get  their  position  in  them,  or 
get  their  living  by  them. 

"  I  am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  say  just  this  to  you,  for  I 
feel  that  you  are  one  with  me  now,  and  that  you  and  I  have  a 
good  deal  of  work  to  do  together  in  the  future.  Next  year,  I 
hope  to  come  back  to  you,  prepared  to  do  very  much  more 
than  I  have  been  able  to  accomplish  during  the  past  winter ; 
but  whatever  may  be  the  event,  I  shall  be  grateful,  not  only  for 
what  has  been  done  for  others,  but  for  what  I  have  won  of  sat- 
isfaction and  wisdom  for  myself." 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  411 

A  viry  hearty  round  of  applause  followed  the  little  speech, 
and  then  Nicholas  took  each  man  by  the  hand,  as  he  passed 
out  of  the  door,  and  bade  him  good-bye. 

His  heart  was  full  of  this  manifestation  of  friendly  regard  on 
the  part  of  his  beneficiaries,  as  he  left  his  rooms  to  spend  his 
closing  evening  with  her  who  was  to  become  his  bride  upon  the 
aiorrow.  The  tide  had  turned.  The  community  of  The  Beg- 
gais'  Paradise  had  changed  its  attitude.  They  had  begun  to 
think  of  doing  something  for  somebody,  and  were  ceasing  to 
think  of  having  somebody  do  everything  for  them. 

He  found  Mrs.  Coates  in  high  spirits,  and  the  house  in  de- 
lightful excitement. 

Miss  Larkin  was  one  of  those  eccentric  young  ladies  who 
regard  a  wedding  as  sacred  to  friendship  and  family  affection. 
She  had  no  desire  to  advertise  her  love  and  her  mantua-making 
to  a  rabble  that  would  regard  the  latter  with  supreme  interest, 
and  vulgarly  gossip  over  the  former  as  a  social  and  pecuniary 
bargain.  She  would  not  consent  to  celebrate  the  most  sacred 
compact  of  personal  affection  in  a  public  building,  beneath  the 
blaze  of  curious  eyes,  or  environ  the  sacrament  of  Christian 
marriage  with  the  publicities  and  pageantries  of  a  heathen  fes- 
tival. 

So  it  was  to  be  a  private  wedding,  in  a  private  house,  under 
the  protection  and  patronage  of  Mrs.  Coates,  from  whose  eyes 
all  tears  had  been  wiped  away.  She  had  arranged  everything, 
even  to  providing 

"  Something  old  and  something  new, 
Something  borrowed  and  something  blue," 

for  the  bride's  dress,  in  accordance  with  the  customs  of  the 
country  village  in  which  she  was  bred.  As  Jenny  had  ceased 
to  be  a  care  upon  her  mother's  heart  and  hands,  in  any  way 
that  loaded  them  with  anxiety,  her  motherliness  was  left  free  to 
expend  itself  upon  her  beautiful  guest.  It  was  through  Nich- 
olas that  her  life  had  been  saved.  It  was  through  Nicholas 
that  Jenny  had  made  Glezen's  acquaintance.  It  was  through 


4i a  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Nicholas  and  Miss  Larkin  that  a  great  deal  of  soci  il  import- 
ance had  been  won  to  herself  and  her  family.  Why  should  she 
not  do  all  within  her  power  to  make  their  wedding  a  pleasant 
one? 

Although,  in  the  social  life  and  benevolent  enterprise  in 
which  Nicholas  and  Miss  Larkin  had  been  engaged,  the  old 
acquaintances  of  the  "  Ariadne  "  had  been  for  a  long  time  left 
behind  or  left  out,  it  was  determined  to  call  the  young  ladies  back 
as  bride-maids.  It  would  be  romantic — it  would  be  fitting — 
that  those  who  were  associated  in  the  sad  peril  of  the  sea  the 
year  before,  should  be  associated  in  this  event,  that  would  come 
among  its  delightful  consequences. 

There  was  Miss  Coates,  of  course,  nearest  and  best.  Miss 
Pelton,  too,  would  be  highly  ornamental ;  and  stately  Miss  Mor- 
gan and  little  Miss  McGregor,  though  exhibiting  contrasts  o( 
physique  that  would  mar  the  symmetry  of  the  bridal  party, 
would  be  quite  indispensable  to  its  poetical  completeness. 

The  young  ladies  were  all  there  when  Nicholas  arrived. 
They  had  come  to  rehearse  their  entrance  and  attitudes,  so  as 
to  be  in  readiness  for  the  morning  wedding,  and  were  engaged 
in  the  exciting  discussion  of  that  which  would  be  proper  and 
graceful  in  the  ceremony.  Mrs.  Coates  was  presiding  benig- 
nantly  over  all,  and  Mr.  Coates  sat  as  a  silent,  critical  observer. 
Mrs.  Coates,  indeed,  had  caught  back  to  herself  a  glimpse  of  the 
poetry  of  youth.  Marriage,  for  the  previous  few  years,  during 
the  period  of  Jenny's  eligibility  to  that  holy  and  most  desirable 
estate,  had  been  so  much  with  her  a  matter  of  scheming  and 
anxiety  and  prudential  policy,  that  she  had  somehow  lost  th* 
romance  and  poetry  of  it.  Now  it  had  returned  to  her,  and 
when  she  saw  all  the  young  people  together,  and  realized  what 
marriage  meant  to  them,  the  vulgar  little  woman  was  not  only 
softened  but  sublimed.  She  even  mellowed  toward  her  hus- 
band, and  as  the  prospective  bride-maids  arranged  themselves 
in  the  order  and  place  in  which  they  were  to  stand,  she  turned 
to  him,  and  said  : 

"  Aint  they  beautiful ! " 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  413 

"  Y-yes,"  he  responded,  drily. 

"  What  do  they  remind  you  of? "  she  said,  in  the  delusive 
hope  that  they  would  call  back  to  his  hardened  soul  the  mem- 
ories of  a  similar  event  in  his  own  life. 

Now  Mr.  Coates  had  been  particularly  amused  by  the  incon- 
gruity of  the  types  of  young  womanhood  before  him,  and  when 
Mrs.  Coates  asked  him  what  they  reminded  him  of  he  replied  : 

'"W-Webster's  D  -  Dictionary,'  'Pilgrim's  P- Progress,' 
'Thomson's  S-Seasons'  and  'D-Daily  Food,'  s-set  on  the 
s-same  shelf." 

At  this,  all  the  young  ladies  laughed,  and  threatened  to  put 
him  out  of  the  room.  So,  with  merry  badinage  and  spirited 
discussions  on  delightful  nothings,  the  evening  passed  away. 

The  morning  wedding  which  followed  was  everything  that  it 
was  expected  to  be.  The  happy  bridegroom  looked  his  best, 
and  the  bride  was  "  too  lovely  for  anything."  The  company 
was  not  too  large;  there  was  a  profusion  of  flowers;  there 
Tvas  a  collection  of  the  most  charming  presents ;  there  were  a 
great  many  kisses  and  a  great  many  good  wishes ;  there  were 
tears  of  sympathetic  gladness;  and  when,  at  last,  the  guests 
were  gone,  and  the  carriage  drove  away  bearing  the  happy  pair, 
a  plump,  tearful,  happy-looking  lady,  stood  in  the  door,  and 
threw  after  them  an  old  shoe,  luckily  dodged  by  a  gaping 
urchin  in  the  street,  who  fancied  that  the  missile  was  aimed  at 
his  head. 

Arrived  at  the  railway  station,  Nicholas  and  his  bride  were 
received  into  one  of  the  rolling  palaces  in  waiting,  and  started 
northward  toward  Ottercliff.  The  long  excitement  was  over, 
and  they  were  one,  quietly  rejoicing  in  the  sense  of  mutual 
possession. 

To  the  profoundly  happy,  merriment  is  but  a  mockery.  In- 
deed, nothing  is  more  serious  than  happiness. 

The  moment  that  they  became  conscious  that  they  were  sun- 
dered from  their  old  associations,  a  sense  of  the  sweet  dignities 
and  ennobling  responsibilities  of  united  love  descended  upon 
them.  As  they  swept  along  the  border  of  the  beautiful  river, 


414  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

leaving  the  noisy  city  behind,  and  going  toward  their  untried 
life,  they  were  exercised  and  possessed  by  as  much  of  remin 
iscence  as  of  hope  and  expectation. 

It  was  but  one  swift  year  before,  that  Nicholas  had  come 
down  the  river,  with  life  untrodden  and  power  untried.  Noth 
ing,  that  he  could  see,  had  changed  but  himself. 

There  is  something  very  like  mockery  in  the  permanent 
youth  of  Nature,  and  its  frictionless  routine  of  change.  We 
only,  who  are  capable  of  observing  and  measuring  the  phenom- 
ena around  us,  are  conscious  of  the  wear  and  tear  of  life.  We 
count  our  own  heart-beats,  and  note  their  faltering  rhythm, 
until  they  cease.  We  feel  the  subsidence  of  vitality;  help- 
lessly we  watch  the  gathering  wrinkles  on  cheek  and  brow ;  we 
know  that  we  are  to  die.  Within  the  space  of  a  single  year,  a 
revolution  is  wrought  within  us  which  places  us  in  new  rela- 
tions to  the  past,  the  future,  the  material  world,  mankind,  and 
even  God  himself.  We  consciously  drive  on  and  on,  through 
permutations  and  transformations  which  leave  our  personal 
identity  a  thing  hard  to  realize,  and  make  self  knowledge  im- 
possible. But  of  one  fact  we  are  always  certain, — we  are  grow- 
ing old.  We  know  that  the  house  we  build  will  outlast  us,  and 
that  any  good  book  which  we  may  write  will  pass  about,  bear- 
ing benedictions  to  alien  firesides  when  the  eyes  that  looked 
into  ours  with  love  have  missed  us  for  many  a  year,  or  have 
themselves  turned  to  dust. 

Yet,  amid  all  this  pathetic  mystery  of  change  within  our- 
selves— change  of  person,  character,  condition,  feeling, — which, 
whatever  may  be  its  range,  leads  inevitably  toward  dissolution, 
Nature  remains  as  fresh,  and  full,  and  smiling,  as  she  seemed  on 
creation's  morning.  Day  and  night,  summer  and  winter,  years 
and  centuries,  come  and  go  in  silent,  unvarying  routine,  and 
light  and  dew  and  beauty  never  forsake  the  world.  The  light- 
ning splinters  a  crag  only  to  give  foothold  to  a  tree,  and  the 
storm-scarred  mountain-side  waits  but  a  year  to  clothe  itself  in 
green.  There  is  not  a  crack  in  the  sky,  there  is  not  a  wrinkle 
upon  the  earth,  there  is  not  a  sign  of  weakness  or  decay  in  the 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  415 

forces  which  sweep  the  world  around  its  course,  and  illuminate 
its  surface  with  life  and  motion. 

There  was  a  keen  apprehension  of  this  in  the  mind  of 
Nicholas,  as,  seated  quietly  by  his  bride,  he  swept  onward 
toward  Ottercliff.  There  stood  the  Highlands,  just  as  they 
stood  the  year  before.  Their  adamantine  foundations  were 
unmoved,  and  the  winter  had  done  them  no  damage  that  the 
spring  had  not  repaired.  No  verdure  was  ever  fresher  or  more 
beautiful  than  that  which  clothed  them.  The  shadows  that 
climbed  their  sides,  or  swept  over  their  summits,  were  from  new 
clouds  that  had  been  lifted  that  very  morning  from  the  bosom 
of  the  maternal  Atlantic ;  and  no  maiden's  eye  was  ever  fresher 
or  bluer  than  the  sky  that  bent  over  them. 

But  he  had  changed.  He  was  not  consciously  weaker — in 
truth,  he  was  consciously  stronger — than  he  was  a  year  before, 
but  he  had  left  behind  a  portion  of  his  youth,  and  advanced  by 
the  measure  of  a  year  into  the  responsibilities  of  mature  life. 
He  had  passed  from  that  which  was  little  more  than  boyhood, 
into  that  which  was  nothing  less  than  manhood. 

To  both  of  them  came  a  grateful  sense  of  Providence.  They 
had  foreseen  nothing ;  they  had  ordered  nothing.  They  had 
arrived  at  the  goal  of  their  hearts'  best  desires  by  a  path  which 
they  knew  not  of, — which  they  did  not  choose. 

Meantime,  Pont,  at  the  objective  end  of  their  flying  journey, 
was  full  of  excitement.  He  had  harnessed  his  horses  early,  and 
was  at  the  station  an  hour  before  the  time  for  the  arrival  of  the 
train  that  was  to  bring  his  master  and  his  new  mistress.  Mrs. 
Fleming  had  opened  the  house,  and  was  waiting,  not  altogether 
without  a  measure  of  regret,  to  surrender  her  authority  to  one 
whom  she  had  never  seen,  but  had  learned  in  advance  to  love. 
But  Pont  had  been  made  the  recipient  of  a  secret,  in  connection 
with  the  projected  events  of  the  day,  and  as  it  was  all  that  he 
could  do  to  carry  it  safely,  it  was  just  as  well  for  him  to  sit  upon 
his  box  at  the  station,  and  chat  with  the  inquisitive  crowd,  as  to 
undertake  any  task  at  home. 

There  were  many  curious  villagers  assembled,  of  course,  when 


4i6  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

the  train  came  in ;  for  the  mistress  of  the  Ottercliff  mansion 
had  always  been,  and  would  always  be,  an  important  person- 
age, and  a  most  significant  factor  in  the  social  life  of  the  town. 
Nicholas  was  proud  of  his  bride,  and  knew  that  her  frank  and 
handsome  eyes  and  smiling  mouth  would  win  their  way  among 
the  crowd  that  had  collected  at  the  station.  So,  with  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  he  walked  to  the  carriage,  nodding  from  side  to 
side  to  his  humble  friends,  and  bowing  back  to  them  as  he 
rode  away. 

"  Pont,  you  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry  to-day,"  said  Nicholas,  as 
the  driver,  -who  looked  unusually  square  in  the  shoulders  and 
straight  in  the  back,  urged  his  horses  up  the  hill. 

"Bar's  an  unfo'seen  suckumstance,  dat  mus'  be  'tended  to, 
sah,"  said  Pont,  with  dignity. 

"  You  are  mysterious,  Pont." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  sah." 

"  What  can  the  man  mean  ?  "  inquired  Grace  of  her  husband. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  some  nonsense.  Make  the  most  of  the  drive. 
It  will  be  a  short  one." 

Nicholas  had  described  to  his  bride  all  the  surroundings  of 
his  home,  and  she  was  delighted  to  recognize  the  details  with 
which  her  imagination  was  already  familiar. 

To  have  a  home  once  more  was  a  blessing  which  she  felt  was 
too  great  to  be  measured.  To  enter  a  princely  home,  as  its 
mistress,  with  the  man  she  loved, — to  rise  to  so  sweet  a  destiny 
out  of  the  very  embrace  of  death — was  a  joy  so  great  that  no 
hour,  no  day,  no  year  could  hold  it.  There  was  enough  of  it 
to  cover  and  fill  a  lifetime.  So,  with  only  an  undefined  con- 
sciousness of  the  great  treasure  that  the  future  had  in  store  for 
her,  she  surrendered  herself  to  an  almost  childish  delight  in  the 
things  she  saw,  and  smiled  and  wept  by  turns  as  the  carriage 
turned  into  the  gateway,  and  swept  between  the  borders  and  the 
trees  which  the  hand  of  love  had  made  her  own.  The  flowers 
looked  up  to  her,  and  the  trees  looked  down  upon  her,  as  if 
they  were  conscious  of  the  coming  of  a  new  mistress,  and  re. 
sponded  to  the  sense  of  ownership  that  sprang  within  her  heart. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.  417 

Mrs.  Fleming  was  ready  with  a  motherly  greeting  for  the  new 
mistress,  and  all  the  servants  were  out  to  tender  their  obeisance. 
It  was  quite  an  old-fashioned  affair,  which  might  have  hap- 
pened on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  but  had  ceased  to  be 
common  on  this.  Happily  there  were  no  social  theorists  pres- 
ent to  protest  against  the  natural  expression  of  deference  by 
one  party,  and  of  well  bred  complaisance  by  the  other.  A  very 
pretty  and  a  very  pleasant  reception  it  was,  and  when  it  was 
over,  Nicholas  led  his  bride  about  the  rooms,  insisting,  with 
delighted  enthusiasm,  that  she  should  see  the  whole  of  her  new 
home  before  ascending  to  her  apartments. 

He  had  noticed  with  some  surprise,  as  he  alighted,  that  Pont 
passed  his  horses  into  the  hands  of  the  gardener,  and  disappear- 
ed. He  asked  no  questions  about  the  matter,  but  when  he  and 
his  bride  came  out  upon  the  piazza,  he  saw  the  negro  making 
signals,  and  acting  strangely  excited. 

Then  the  ears  of  the  pair  were  deafened  by  the  discharge  of 
a  cannon.  This  was  followed  by  cheers  from  a  thousand 
throats,  and  these  by  the  music  of  a  band. 

It  was  all  a  surprise,  and  for  a  moment  they  could  not 
understand  it.  Then  it  gradually  appeared  that  a  huge  river 
steamer  was  lying  close  in  shore,  swarming  with  an  excursion 
party,  and  covered  with  banners  and  bunting.  Among  the 
banners  was  one,  stretched  almost  from  stem  to  stern,  bearing 
the  word  "  Atheneum"  That  word  was  the  key  to  the  mystery. 
The  residents  of  "The  Beggars'  Paradise"  had  come  up,  en 
masse,  to  manifest  their  interest  in  the  occasion,  and  to  do  honor 
to  the  young  man  who  had  devoted  to  them  such  wise  and 
fruitful  gifts  of  time  and  money. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  measure  or  end  to  the  manifesta- 
tions of  enthusiasm  on  board  the  steamer.  There  were  dippings 
of  flags,  and  swingings  of  hats,  and  wavings  of  handkerchiefs. 
There  were  cheers,  and  shouts,  and  cannon,  and  the  band  again. 
The  party  upon  the  piazza,  augmented  by  the  servants,  went 
out  upon  the  lawn  and  frantically  responded  to  the  salutations. 
Then  the  wheels  of  the  steamer  began  to  move,  a  parting  guc 
18* 


418  NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

was  fired,  and  amid  cheers  that  grew  fainter  in  the  distance,  and 
the  waving  of  handkerchiefs  by  hands  that  had  grown  weary  with 
the  exercise,  and  the  strains  of  "Sweet  Home"  from  the  band, 
the  heavily  loaded  craft  moved  slowly  down  the  river,  and  dis- 
appeared behind  the  trees. 

The  servants  retired,  and  the  husband  and  wife  were  left 
alone. 

"  Nicholas,"  said  the  bride,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  you  have 
earned  that." 

"Then  I  have  earned  something  better  than  money,"  he  re- 
sponded. 

"And  you  have  earned  me,  too,"  she  added,  clasping  his 
arm,  and  looking  up  into  his  eyes. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  with  his  arm  around  her,  led 
her  into  the  house 

They  paused  silently  before  his  mother's  portrait,  that  smiled 
its  benediction  upon  them;  they  climbed  the  old  staircase  that 
the  feet  of  so  many  brides  had  pressed ;  and  so  another  famby 
life,  than  which  earth  holds  nothing  sweeter  or  more  typical  of 
heaven,  began. 

•• 

THE   KND. 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  INU.S   A 


PS  1944  N52  1910 
Holland,  Josiah'  Gilbert, 

1819-1881 . 
Nicholas  Minturn. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  259  384  4 


3  1210  00230  661 


